


Propriety and Pursuit

by JenyaKeefe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, Apologies to Jane Austen, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Yearning, mpreg's not my thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 27,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenyaKeefe/pseuds/JenyaKeefe
Summary: Stiles has never wished for a husband. Completely innocent of physical desire (except during his yearly heat), he doesn't know what he would do with a husband, if he had one. But others manage it somehow, and even seem happy. And Stiles knows his duty.





	1. In Which Stiles is a Regency Maiden

**Author's Note:**

> This has lots of short chapters. I plan to post one chapter per day until we get to the end.

 

"I do not see the necessity," said Stiles Stilinski. "You remained unmarried until your thirty-fifth year, and I am only four-and-twenty."

"You know very well that the case is not the same," said his father. "An adult omega cannot remain unprotected."

"I can protect myself well enough," Stiles replied, with dignity, "and no one would dare challenge the safety of your home."

In this last, he was correct. Major John Stilinski of the Royal Artillery had earned a fearsome reputation for ruthlessness during the war. Upon retirement he had moved to Beacons, a rambling old Elizabethan manor here in Dorset. Now long widowed, he was well-beloved by his neighbors for his kind and even disposition, but no one had forgotten that he was rumored to be a very dangerous man to cross.

 "Stiles, I am sorry. But Mrs. McCall and I will wed in spring, and her alpha son will come live with us here. You cannot, under any circumstances, remain under my roof while an unmarried alpha lives here."

"Scott McCall would never offer me any insult."

"I believe that, but it is nevertheless out of the question. The world would see it quite another way."

It wasn't fair. Scott McCall could, without scandal, make an establishment of his own; but his mama wanted to keep him close, and Major Stilinski had agreed. Stiles, an omega, could not live without an alpha, father or spouse, to guard him.

"And so I must wed a stranger to appease the small-minded world," said Stiles, not hiding his resentment.

"No, son," said John Stilinski, with a smile that did not conceal his determination. "But you must unbury yourself from your music and your papers, and make an attempt."

There was no hiding from the resolve in his pale-blue gaze. Major Stilinski was a kind man, but a decisive one.

"You and Mrs. Honoria will see about procuring you a new wardrobe, one that is suitable for society outings," he said. "And then you will attend the Mrs. Waterton's annual picnic to open the mating season. You will begin to join me for Lady Mathis's music-parties, and you will attend Lady Jamesbury's ball." Stiles had paled through this recitation, but Major Stilinski was relentless. "And you will allow prospective suitors to approach you, and you will speak to them with all appropriate seemliness, and you will show yourself to be a credit to our name. You are intelligent, comely, and you are my child; if you behave yourself, you will not be spoiled for options, I am sure. And so you will have time to consider a selection of suitors, and leisure to choose one who will suit. Does that not seem fair?"

Stiles thought it seemed awful, but his father's eyes glinted a warning at him.

"It is the way of the world," he admitted, "Whether I find it fair or not."

"You know I would never force you into a match that is unwelcome to you," Major Stilinski consoled him. "Only try, Stiles. You've been nearly a recluse since you presented. But if you try, I am sure you will meet someone you like."

Privately, Stiles doubted it. 

Like all omegas, Stiles had been completely innocent of physical desire until, in late adolescence, he had experienced his first heat. In the throes of that yearly event, the things he wanted, and the things he was willing to do to assuage his want, were so shocking to him that he considered himself an entirely different person during that time. Outside of his heat, he still experienced no sensual pleasure at all. He had never wanted a  mate, except in his heat. He was sure he wouldn't know what to do with a mate, if he had one. 

But others managed it somehow, and even seemed happy. And he knew his duty.


	2. In Which It Is Readily Seen How Well Society Has Civilized the Wolf

 

"This is dreadful," complained Stiles, as he and Scott McCall walked across the manicured lawns at the Waterton estate. He pitched his voice low so that only his friend and soon-to-be brother could hear him.

At least he could console himself that he looked his best. He wore the first of his new outfits: an afternoon suit of a pale grey with a gold waistcoat that brought out the color of his eyes. It was well-tailored to show off his long legs and slim build, and his hair had been dressed with a pomade that smelled, very lightly, of cinnamon.

  "Ah, Stiles, how can you be so dreary?" said Scott. "The weather is fine."

 Stiles looked at him, eyebrows raised. Scott looked handsome in blue, but unlike Stiles, Scott was not trussed up like a doll to attract a mate.

 "It is too windy for a picnic," said Stiles querulously.

 "You'll feel warmer when you've eaten. The food smells good."

 "I am not hungry."

 Scott smiled at him. "Then you will be especially light on your feet for the dancing."

 "Country dances on the grass," scoffed Stiles. "My shoes will turn green."

 "Then you will demand that your suitors clean them for you," said Scott. "With their tongues."

 Stiles laughed, unable to retain his sour mood in the face of Scott's good humor. "You imagine great success for me, brother!"

 "As do I," said Mrs. Honoria, Stiles's chaperone, in a quelling tone. "But only if Mr. McCall takes himself elsewhere. You must not appear to be attached, Mr. Stilinski."

 Stiles sighed, but Scott said cheerfully, "Very well! I shall go flirt with Squire Argent's pretty daughter. Only follow my example, Mr. Stilinski, and you'll soon find that no man can resist you."

 "Smile," said Mrs. Honoria, as they reached the group and his hostess, the redoubtable Mrs. Waterton, approached to welcome him. Obediently, Stiles smiled. Mrs. Waterton was cousin by marriage to half the peers of the realm; she was rich, respected, and her September picnics had become the social event that opened every mating season. She was as powerful in her own way as any prince.

 "Mr. Stilinski! So good it is to see you at my little gathering." He bowed over her hand, and she went on, "I do hope the major is well."

 "He is well, madam, but for his sorrow that he could not attend himself. He sends this offering of his esteem." He presented to her a bottle of wine. "Although I know you would enjoy his company, you might find you enjoy the wine even more."

 "I could never enjoy anything more, Mr. Stilinski, but I suppose we must make do." She accepted the wine with a twinkle in her eye and handed it off to a servant to open.

 He introduced Mrs. Honoria as his cousin, and the two women exchanged pleasantries. It was the polite custom to pretend that chaperones were friends and family, not hirelings who watched over the safety and propriety of their omega wards. Then Mrs. Waterton introduced Stiles to her other guests, and he joined the festivities.

 It was a highly-ritualized affair. The days of running and biting and rutting were long past; mating was civilized now. The omegas sat, displaying themselves prettily, on the pink-and-white cloth that was spread on the grass, drinking wine and listening to the string quartet that played, while an equal number of single alpha guests circulated among them, proffering trays of food. It was stilted and boring and everyone was very well-behaved.

 Stiles wanted to join the musicians, suggest to the cellist that his C string was tuned a bit sharp. But he behaved himself and did his best, smiling and chatting with one alpha after another, trying to remember their names and carefully not showing preference for anyone. His father was well-respected, his fortune more than adequate; he attracted his share of interested alphas. 

 But he found himself paying more attention to the omega sitting next to him than any of his courtiers. A lovely blonde named Miss Erica Reyes, she batted her eyelashes at the alpha who was offering them a tray of hors-d'oeuvres- "Thank you," she murmured breathlessly, selecting a cold shrimp and suckling it, daintily, between her full lips. "It's delicious."

 The alpha flushed and bit his lip, the smell of arousal rising to his skin. "You're very welcome, Miss Reyes," he said.

 "But how sadly it clashes with this red wine," she complained, pouting. "I wonder if the flavor would be improved with a white?"

 "Would you, would you like me to bring you another glass?"

 "Oh, that would be nice." She leaned forward, smiling, and Stiles saw the alpha's eyes drop fractionally to her bosom before flicking back up to her eyes.

 "Certainly, Miss Reyes," he said, and she beamed at him as he headed back towards the bar.

 "You are a menace," drawled Stiles.

 She shrugged. "These parties are a bit tedious," she said. "One must amuse oneself somehow, and none of these -" she flicked her fingers towards the assembled alphas - "appeal to me. Are you keen on anyone in particular?"

 "No," he said. "But I've orders to find someone."

 "I wonder," she said, "if anyone else here longs for the days of our distant ancestors, when alphas chased omegas through the woods; when omegas, faster and more agile than any alpha, put their shaggy suitors through their paces, forcing them to run and hunt and fight, finally selecting only the most fit and mating under the moon."

 This was shocking talk from an unclaimed omega. Stiles found her delightful. "I cannot match you in savagery," he said, "but I admit, when you describe it so, this party does seem like thin porridge in comparison."

 "Few can match me in savagery, Mr. Stilinski," she sighed.

 "Miss Reyes, I believe it."

 "You seem close to Mr. Scott McCall?"

 "He is the best of men. We've been friends since childhood, and I vow you could do no better."

 "Since you esteem him so highly, why do you not make him yours?"

 Stiles smiled at her and shrugged. "He is like a brother to me. And even if he were not, his tastes are very firmly decided. I cannot imagine he would object to you."

 She dimpled. "But then, my tastes are decided too," she said. "And they do not run to sweet boys like Scott McCall. I know myself very well, Mr. Stilinski, and I know that my teeth are sharp." Her lips curved up in a smile as her suitor returned with a glass of wine, "It would hardly be fair."

 Stiles wished he knew himself the way Erica Reyes did. If only he had some insight into exactly what sort of alpha he hoped to find, so that he would know how to pick and chose from those before him. But he did not. He was powerfully moved by his heats, but even during the lust-fever he had no mental image of the sort of alpha he needed. Male or female, large or small, kind or cruel. Truly, he thought it would be best if he could wed someone who would satisfy - or at least cool - his needs during his heats, and would leave him alone to his piano and his books the rest of the time.

 But now an alpha was approaching him as well, and he arranged his face in welcome, trying his best to find a spark of attraction or recognition within himself.


	3. In Which an Omega Recognizes His Alpha

After luncheon there was, as Scott had predicted, dancing on the lawn. It was all very seemly - the ancient instinct to flee and to chase, sublimated into sedate figures, circles and turns under the watchful eyes of a dozen chaperones. Stiles had learned to dance as a child and performed the steps precisely, allowing his gloved hands to be grasped and clasped as he turned and bowed, and was passed from one partner to another.

Exercise and the warm autumn sun heated the bodies of the dancers, and their scents swirled in the air. Stiles's white cotton gloves grew damp with sweat, not his own, as he crossed from partner to partner. He had not anticipated the way the eyes of the alphas began to reflect desire, the primitive need to dominate and protect; the way the other omegas instinctively grew graceful and pliant before alpha intention. He felt no instinct to capitulate to the energy of any alpha, but others clearly did.

Hand in the hand of a woman alpha, he was led in a turn on the lawn. "Permission to call upon you," she said, her voice throbbing with passion.

"I am desolate that I cannot oblige you," he said, squeezing her hand very slightly as she passed him to his next partner.

All around him he could hear alphas and omegas murmuring to each other in the few moments they had together, before the dance demanded that they switch partners.

Stiles's next partner was also female, also warm with desire, but she said to him, "Erica Reyes. I would know more of that lady. Can you aid me?"

Stiles smiled at her. "Sharp teeth," he said. "I believe she likes a challenge, Lady Cora."

"Your servant," she breathed, and he was on to the next.

"You have the prettiest ass I've ever seen." This alpha was Lord Jackson Wittemore, and he had a pleased-with-himself air. A lordly hand patted the mentioned part of Stiles's anatomy, on the side hidden from the gaze of the chaperones. Stiles's brown eyes widened in shock, and Lord Jackson's blue ones challenged Stiles to protest.

Stiles smiled at him nastily: "Enjoy it while you may, my lord; it is not for you."

"It would be glad, did you give it to me."

"I give nothing to one who could never catch it."

"What the devil is going on here?" roared a loud voice.

The music stopped suddenly. So too did the dancers. Lord Jackson halted so suddenly that Stiles stumbled against him, and the alpha caught him to keep him from falling, then clasped him, one hand gripping his hip. Stiles trod on his foot.

A tall man riding a black horse approached the party. Their hostess, Mrs. Waterton, intercepted him - "Lord Derek! You are always welcome, of course, but -"

"Sister," growled the man - Lord Derek Hale, Stiles realized. He was of an ancient and wealthy family, and gossip said his life had been plagued by misfortune: his wife had died in childbirth, and not long after that his parents and siblings were killed in a devastating house fire. Only Derek and his infant sister Cora had escaped the blaze. He had built a new house in the place of the old, and taken his sister as his ward. He was handsome and sought-after, but rarely seen at society gatherings.

"Brother." Lady Cora Hale, the alpha who was interested in Miss Erica, left the dance and approached him, bristling with anger. "I cannot believe you would interrupt this entertainment," she said icily.  

"I cannot believe you would disobey my orders and attend it," he said, his voice flat with fury. 

He was a very handsome man, some ten years older than Stiles, tall and fit and dark-haired. A tidily trimmed beard, just threaded with silver, framed his mouth. He sat the horse with unconscious mastery, and his thighs were visibly corded with muscle in his riding breeches. Stiles emitted an involuntary hum of appreciation, and Jackson's grip tightened on his flank.

"Remove your hand," whispered Stiles, "or I will bite it off."

Jackson released him.

Cora was arguing with her brother. "I do not require your permission to court an omega of good family."

"You do, if you think to have a home to bring her to," replied Lord Derek.

His pale eyes scanned the assembly, which stood about in disorder, and found Miss Erica Reyes. He nodded at her, and she lifted her chin haughtily. Lord Derek was surely the very sort of powerful alpha Miss Reyes sought, and she was beautiful: surely no alpha could resist her in her defiance. Stiles experienced a nasty, unwelcome stab of jealousy. 

Lord Derek Hale should not be looking at Erica Reyes. Lord Derek Hale should not be looking at anyone but _him_.

Lord Derek said, "Miss Reyes. My sister has but seventeen years. Should you remain available upon her eighteenth birthday, she will have my permission to pay you court."

Erica curtsied gracefully. "Should I remain available upon that day," she said, "you may approach my family to discuss the matter."

He nodded. His cool gaze fell on their hostess. "Mrs. Waterton," he said, politely. "You will see Lady Cora transported back to Hale House?"

"Certainly, Lord Derek."

Lord Derek scanned the assembled guests, alphas and omegas, who stood about the lawn, just as they were when the music stopped, as though the dance had frozen. Stiles felt that pale linger upon him, where he stood beside Lord Jackson, for just a moment. Stiles's heart leaped; _Yes_ , cried something inside his soul. _Yes, see me._

Then the man turned his horse and cantered away. The fitful wind blew his scent towards the group. Stiles inhaled, filling his lungs with that scent: sweat of the horse, sweat of the annoyed alpha.

Delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jackson's kind of terrible in this fic.


	4. A Beast Is Awakened, And A Decision Is Made

That night, Stiles lay in his lonely bed at Beacons, and remembered.

Remembered that few moments' glimpse of Lord Derek Hale: the way he'd controlled his horse with the strength of his legs, minute shifts of his weight and balance. His carriage had been proud and supple, no sign of age marring the impression of strength and resilience. His mouth, framed by the well-trimmed fringe of his beard, firm and a bit grim, his pale eyes flashing with anger.

Stiles felt his cock stretch itself awake, harden, and lie quivering and alive between his abdomen and the soft sheet of his bed.

What was happening? Stiles always came into heat in December. He was not due for months. Was it coming early? He took himself in hand, wondering, gasping softly with pleasure. He knew that most adults grew sexually aroused at times - one could hardly have a nose, and not be aware of that. But Stiles never had, except when the heat gripped him in its claws, forced him to respond and react and crest, again and again.

Now, he stroked himself gently, playing with his foreskin. He had never done this, except in the lust-fever of December. This was new. He brought his other hand down to finger his hole, which he found slick with desire.

This wasn't heat, he thought dreamily, tightening his hand, his eyes drooping shut with pleasure. This was Derek Hale. Derek Hale's firm mouth, his slim hips, his hard thighs. The smell of him, hot with exercise and aggravation - just the memory of him was having this effect on Stiles.

Imagine, if this hand, pumping his cock, was Derek Hale's hand, hard and possessive. Imagine, if the finger penetrating him now, was Derek Hale's cock, bigger than any finger, driven by powerful thrusts of his hips. Imagine, what it would be like to be taken by such a man. Stiles imagined, and cried out with both pleasure and need, and his spend pulsed out of him suddenly, surprising him with its force.

"Oh," he whispered in the dark, rubbing his seed into his skin. Wishing it were his, wishing he were marking himself with his mate's scent. "Oh, my lord. Somehow, somehow, I will make you mine."

o0o0o0o

"So you've made a decision already," said John Stilinksi over breakfast the next morning.

"I have," said Stiles, piling scrambled eggs onto his buttered toast.

Stiles and his father ate casually in Stiles's music room. As was his wont when at home, Stiles wore loose drawstring linen trousers, a soft collarless shirt, and an ancient, much-laundered dressing gown. He sat at his piano with his plate in his lap. He'd gotten up before dawn and had been playing for hours, massaging a new melody that had come into his head in the carriage on his way home from the picnic - a happy melody, sweet and simple in the first verse, taut with tension in the second, plaintive in the third. He wasn't done with it - the unresolved tension after the third repetition of the melody nagged at him - but his father had interrupted him with a plate of food, so he put the song aside to eat.

They often ate together here at the piano, his father with a book propped on the table before him. They were not quiet on this morning, though; Stiles had presented his wishes to his father.

"Permit me to wonder at your speed," wondered the major. "Only yesterday you were determined to have no one."

Stiles smiled at him sweetly. "But you convinced me of the necessity," he said, "and your argument was so persuasive that I was compelled to obey."

John snorted. "Obedient to the last," he said. "Well, I do not fault your taste. I have known Lord Derek for years, and he is a fine man - unconventional, I think; he strictly obeys the conventions of society for his sister's sake, but I would wager that in his heart he is quite _unconventional_. I would hesitate to match you with an entirely conventional mate. But you set me a pretty task, Stiles. He has shown no interest in courting since his wife died."

"I showed no interest in courting, until I saw him," said Stiles. "Father, may I be frank? I have never felt any interest in anyone. I cared not, when I left the house yesterday, if I attracted a male alpha or a female; young or old, rich or poor. I _wished_ to care, for though you tease me for disobedience, I am not insensible to our dilemma; but I did not. And now? Now I have seen this one man, and it is as though ... It is as though I have lived on bread and water all my life, and am tasting meat for the first time."

He crunched into a strip of bacon, illustratively.

John was gazing at him with a fond softness in his eyes that Stiles recognized. "You remind me so much of your mother," he said.

"Did you feel this way about her?"

"I? No." John smiled. "But she felt that way about me. She said she saw me once and knew. And once she determined that I would be hers, I fell before her, like grass before a scythe. But tell me, did Lord Derek look to you as well? Did he speak to you?"

The tradition was as old as time. The alpha must pursue the omega. Stiles could not approach Lord Derek with his interest. John Stilinski could not approach Lord Derek Hale on his son's behalf. An omega might exert himself to be attractive - might be extremely bold, in order to secure the attention of the desired alpha - but the courting must be done by the alpha.

Truth be told, Stiles doubted that Lord Derek had even noticed him.

Stiles waved a fork. "I trust that these details will resolve themselves in time."

"You do."

"Yes, father. I do. If you approve?"


	5. Of Aquamarines and Yellow Cats

It was not long before Stiles saw Lord Derek Hale again.

He and his chaperone, Mrs. Honoria, had gone into town to visit Madame Dubois, the modiste who was working on new garments for his wardrobe. They were strolling down High Street towards Madame Dubois' shop, looking in windows and chatting, when the unmistakable scent of Lord Derek Hale wafted faintly through the air. He stopped in his tracks, breathing deeply.

"What is it, Mr. Stilinski?"

"I hardly know, Mrs. Honoria." He rotated in place, trying to pick Lord Derek's scent out of the myriad other odors that blew on the cool autumn wind, until he thought he determined the direction of the scent: down a side street, where a few small shops were set back from the main street. He saw a public house called The Yellow Cat, and beside it a small jewelry store, its well-lit window displaying necklaces and brooches. "There is an attractive display of shiny items," he said. "Shall we stop and look?"

"Extravagant jewels are not for young gentlemen," she said. "A few small, well-chosen pieces are sufficient for an omega under thirty. Only older men and women can wear large jewels without looking debauched."

"I bow to your expertise," he said. "But surely one can look at attractive things, even though it would be unwise to possess them?"

She frowned, not necessarily approving of this sally, but he gave her his most beguiling smile, and she agreed to accompany him down the narrow way. The scent of Lord Derek grew stronger, and he wondered from whence it came: the Yellow Cat, or the jewelry store? He paused before the latter, admiring a diamond and opal parure, his senses alive for any trace of his object.

And then he heard his voice:

"The aquamarines were mother's."

Stiles focused his gaze past the opals to the interior of the jewelry shop, where Lord Derek stood with his sister Cora, fastening a delicate string of pale blue stones around her long throat. "They were in an old-fashioned stomacher," Lord Derek continued. "I had them reset for you. There are some larger stones as well; they are yours now, and you can decide what to do with them."

"I love it," said Lady Cora. "Oh, Derek. It's beautiful. Thank you."

"Well, you must look your best when you go a-courting." She looked up at him, wide-eyed with hope, and his white teeth flashed in a grin. "After you turn eighteen."

Stiles very nearly moaned aloud. Had he thought Lord Derek was handsome before? The smile he turned on his sister was devastating. He literally felt his knees weaken. His heart pounded, his cock throbbed, his loins trembled with want, just from that smile.

Stiles had no experience with desire; he knew not how to manage it, when it came upon him like that.

So he was gazing through the window of the jewelry shop like a lovestarved sheep, breathless with yearning, when someone crashed bodily into him, driving him with a thump against the window and separating him from his chaperone. He caught his balance, pushing at the man who had run into him. "Isaac!"

"Wh - Stiles?"

Isaac Lahey had been a childhood playmate, like Scott. Unlike Scott, they'd lost touch when Stiles had presented and decided to withdraw from society. Now the young man was taller, handsomer, definitely drunker than Stiles had ever seen him. He had come out of the Yellow Cat public house, reeling, stinking of wolfsbane brandy, and now with muddled fondness he clasped Stiles improperly around the waist. "Stiles! My friend!"

"Good God, Isaac, get a hold of yourself." He put his hands on Isaac's shoulders and gave him a little shake. "Stand on your own feet, man, not mine."

"Ah, you used to love me," lamented Isaac. He crowded Stiles, sniffing, and smiled. "And what has you in this pleasing state, old friend? These diamonds? Or _me_?"

Stiles shoved him, hard enough to send him staggering back.

It was incredibly rude to comment upon the spontaneous scents produced by bodies. No one could fail to notice these scents, but the first rule of civilized society was to pretend not to, unless one was with a very intimate companion indeed. Stiles, shocked beyond speech, looked around for his chaperone.

And Stiles's mortification was not complete, for Lord Derek and Lady Cora were now emerging from the jewelry shop, their notice attracted by the commotion. Stiles had been able to hear every word of their quiet conversation; what odds, that they had not heard Isaac's crude words? None - Lord Derek's pale gaze flicked from Stiles to Isaac and back, his handsome brows drawn down in a forbidding scowl. His nostrils flared as he undoubtedly caught the interesting scent that Isaac had mentioned.

Blushing, Stiles stepped behind Mrs. Honoria for protection, for the first time desperately grateful for his chaperone's presence.

That lady took him by the arm and said, "Heavens, how warm the afternoon has grown. Come along, Mr. Stilinski; I am sure Madame Dubois will offer us refreshment."

Trembling a little, he allowed her to lead him away. After a moment, he whispered, "Forgive me, Mrs. Honoria. I am so very sorry."

"Was that the man you hope will court you?" she inquired.

"Yes. The one in the jewelry shop. Not Isaac."

"I see." She patted his hand, comfortingly. "It is perfectly natural, Mr. Stilinski. And your alpha is a man of years and good breeding, so he will understand. Let us speak of it no more."


	6. A Call to the Hunt

Major Stilinski was a regular attendant at Lady Mathis's monthly music-parties - and so, he assured his son, was Lord Derek Hale. 

These were not mating rituals, the way Mrs. Waterton's picnic had been; they were select after-supper gatherings for genuine music aficionados. This evening Major Stilinski caused a slight stir by arriving accompanied not only by his affianced bride, as was his custom, by by his son as well.

Stiles was dressed in severe black-and-white evening wear, the only spot of color in his attire the small blood-red cabochon rubies in his earlobes. He responded correctly to the introductions, and was pleased to find that he was not the youngest person in attendance: Miss Erica Reyes was here, too, with her mama. "A pleasure to see you again," he said, bowing over her hand. "You look lovely." She did, too, in shimmering white, her pale hair looped with pearls.

"As do you," she said. "How the gossips will clack."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Tongues have been humming since Mrs. Waterton's picnic," she said. "You've never shown any interest in changing your unmated state, even at the advanced age of - what, twenty-three?"

"Twenty-four."

"And now, la, not one but two outings. And here, an event frequented by by older, more-established alphas, rather than ardent young lovers. You must be in serious want of a husband."

"Serious indeed," he agreed, "but not just any husband." He scanned the group, and failed to find the man he most wanted to see. "And not one present tonight, most unfortunately. Any prospect here for you?"

She shrugged one smooth shoulder. "I suppose there may be. I can wait for the right one. But hush, we are summoned."

The music was about to begin. The guests filtered into the drawing room, where a small chamber ensemble was tuning its instruments. Stiles saw Erica to her chair when a stir in the foyer caused him to look up. The butler arrived in the room to announce the arrival of a late guest: Lord Derek Hale.

"Forgive me," said Lord Derek to Lady Mathis, kissing her hand. "I am tardy." He wore evening dress, unadorned black, and he was so handsome Stiles found it difficult to draw a full breath.

"Not at all," the lady said to him, graciously. "We have not yet begun."

"I'm glad. I should have been sorry to miss a note of the Schubert," he said, and made his way to a chair on the far end of the room.

Lord Derek liked Schubert. In a whisper that was almost without breath, soundless to everyone but Erica, Stiles said, "Now that is the man for me."

Erica lifted an eyebrow, considering; but could say nothing, for the music began.

After the concert, the musicians mingled with the guests, chatting about the music. Stiles stayed by his father's side, speaking only when spoken to, but quiveringly aware of Lord Derek on the other side of the room, chatting with Lady Mathis. How he longed to speak to him. But he could not approach an alpha without an introduction; and then, what would he say? _I imagine being loved by you every night?_ He could never, though it had the charm of truth.

Then he was drawn out by Lord Algernon, a very old friend of the Stilinski family. He was nearly eighty, a fine pianist who had taught Stiles his scales when he was a child. Stiles had outstripped his old teacher's skill at the piano long since, and the old man's roguish sense of humor often brought out Stiles's blushes; but still they were fond friends, and Stiles shook his hand with real pleasure.

"My boy, what did you think?"

"Lovely," said Stiles. "I'm delighted to have been included."

"You should attend every month. Always welcome. You should play for us!"

"Oh no," said Stiles. "I could not."

"Such bashfulness," teased Lord Algernon. "So you're on the marriage market now?" Stiles nodded, glancing around nervously, but no one was paying attention to himself and the old man. "I hope your alpha will allow you to continue to attend."

"I hope," said Stiles, "my eventual alpha will also enjoy music."

"I should think so," said Lord Algernon. "Shall we expect a declaration soon, then?"

"No sir, you gallop out ahead of the hounds," he said.

Lord Algernon laughed indelicately. "Mustn't frighten the fox, eh?"

Stiles felt  his face grow hot. "My lord!"

"Ah, I forget what a proper boy you are," chuckled Lord Algernon.

"But Lord Algernon, might I beg a favor? I would be in your debt, should you introduce Lord Derek Hale to me."

Lord Algernon's eyebrows rose. "A swift fox indeed," he said, "but no one can deny his pelt is very fine."

_"My lord."_

"Oh, look, here he is now," said the old man. "Mr. Stiles Stilinski, allow me to present Lord Derek Hale. Lord Derek, this is Major John Stilinski's son; I have known him for twenty years. He is a very fine musician, or he was once; if he has kept up with his scales, I am sure he is still."

Stiles knew that he was blushing scarlet when he lifted his eyes to those of Lord Derek Hale. Those pale eyes - they weren't blue, or grey, as he had imagined. For the first time he could see that they were green, hazel-green, dark-ringed around the rims, gold in the center. He extended his hand, trembling, and Lord Derek Hale took it and bowed. They both wore gloves; Stiles wished for a touch of bare warm skin.

Lord Derek seemed unaffected. "I believe we have already encountered one another," he said, "in a less polite setting."

"Yes," breathed Stiles, "but how pleasant to be introduced at last, my lord."

"Pleasant indeed," agreed Lord Derek, dropping his hand.

Stammering slightly, Stiles said, "I perceive you, too, are an admirer of Herr Schubert's."

"Any man of taste must be," said Lord Derek.

Oh, this was sweet agony. Stiles was pierced on the forks of shyness and desire, each reinforcing the other. The nearness and beauty of Lord Derek flooded his body with sensual agitation; the very unfamiliarity of those feelings made it almost impossible to speak. Especially knowing that those around him could scarcely be unaware of Stiles's agitation.

"The Sonatensatz was beautifully performed," said Stiles. "Did you not think so?"

"I did," said Lord Derek, "though I think I am not quite as moved by the music as you."

Oh dear God, was that a reference to -? But surely not. Lord Derek was a gentleman, and, as Mrs. Honoria had said, a mature man, who understood that such things were natural. He would hardly be so crude as to allude to it.

Lord Algernon rescued him from his confusion, by saying, "Lord Derek plays piano as well."

Lord Derek smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling, and such a surge of desire coursed through Stiles's body, he thought he must fall to his knees with the force of it. Lord Derek said, "Ah, not so. I bought the piano for my sister, but it sits untouched, except when it must be dusted."

"Perhaps sometime," said Stiles, breathlessly, "we might practice together."

Lord Derek glanced into Stiles's eyes, where Stiles was certain all his hopes were displayed. He said only, "Perhaps." He looked to Lord Algernon, dismissing Stiles. "My lord, might I have a moment of your time? A matter of business."

 "Of course. Will you excuse us, Stiles?"

"Yes, my lords."

They retired to a study.

For a long moment Stiles stood, perfectly still as the brief conversation ran through his mind again and again. Had he said _pleasant_? Had he said they _might practice together_? He squeezed his eyes shut with mortification. 

That had been his chance, his one moment to shine, to attract Lord Derek's admiration, to make him see him - but Lord Derek had passed over him with mere politeness, and Stiles had just stood there, mentally rhapsodizing about the color of his eyes and prattling on about Schubert. Like a complete ninny.

Well. At the very least, Stiles made himself known to the man. He had issued his call to the chase. _Pursue me, and alpha, I might let you catch me_.

If only he would.

o0o0o0o

 

That night, the memory of his conversation with Lord Derek would not let him sleep.

He was learning that desire, once roused, would not return to quiescence. He had never craved the touch of a lover, until he first spied and scented Lord Derek Hale; now he could scarcely think of anything else.

He opened the window above his bed and let the fresh wind blow into his room. It smelled of autumn leaves, the frost on the grass, the rose-hips in the garden. He was hard and restless, and his mind would not be still. He closed his eyes, felt the cool air like a breath on his body.

It was like, and not like, the beginning of heat. Like, in that he was helpless to resist the urge to gratify himself. Unlike, in that he was still himself; not the greedy insatiate fiend that took over during the heat, avid for nothing but more and more sensation. He was still himself, still Stiles. But so lonely, and oh, so hungry.

He remembered, again and again, that moment in Lady Mathis's gracious home, when Lord Derek had smiled, and Stiles had nearly fallen to his knees. What if he had? Knelt before Lord Derek, looking up at him, his face on the level with Lord Derek's manhood. What if he had pressed his face to the front of Lord Derek's breeches and inhaled his scent, right there, at the juncture of his thighs; would he have found him swollen and needy, as he was himself now swollen and so desperately needy? Surely Lord Derek would have taken Stiles's head in his hard hands, pressed his cock against Stiles's open and willing mouth, seeking pleasure and release, just as Stiles sought pleasure and release now, wringing pleasure from himself with both tight hands.

My lord. My lord. Oh, my lord.


	7. Song for Derek

 Very much to Stiles's dismay, Lord Derek Hale did not call at Beacons.

Had he not been plain? He had seen him three times. Lord Derek could not have missed his invitation. 

Perhaps he had been too plain. Lord, he had been intoxicated with excitement, upon their introduction; Lord Derek had to know he had only to stretch out his hand, and Stiles would be his. Perhaps the lord preferred a harder chase. Perhaps the lord was disinclined to chasing. Perhaps he was simply not interested.

That must surely be the case, for the days passed, and his lordship did not call.

Stiles was left to stew with impatience. During the days, he worked obsessively, playing over and over the song he'd written after the picnic, finding variations and modifications with each repetition. He named it Song For Erica, but of course that was not its true title. His nights were filled with fevered longings. He was compelled to seek completion at his own hand, though the exercise left him lonely and dissatisfied.

In vain he tried to calm himself with reason. After all, he did not know the man. He might not be an appropriate sort of man at all. He might be cruel. He might be indifferent. He might love Vivaldi.

But there was no arguing with the omega wolf who lived in Stiles's skin. He had recognized in Lord Derek Hale a mate, and that was the end of it.

He did not have time to wallow in his anxiety, though, for he was to attend Lady Jamesbury's ball, an event that promised to the center of the social season. Every high-ranking gentleperson in the realm was likely to be in attendance, as well as every alpha and omega who wished to be mated. They would be guarded by a truly a dragonlike cohort of chaperones, for Lady Jamesbury was a famous stickler for propriety.

When the evening of the ball arrived, Stiles was adorned in a suit of shining pale yellow brocade, figured with leaves and flowers, with topazes in his ears and bronze kohl lining his eyelids. It was a far more ornate ensemble than anything he had ever worn before, and he felt a bit shy in it, as though it were a disguise.

"Chin up," said John Stilinski, adjusting the folds of his white cravat.

"Do I look well?"

"You always look well."

"So," said Stiles, fidgeting, "just as usual?"

John caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Yes," he said, soothingly. "Exactly that well. You've got your mother's eyes, you know, and her fine spirit. All the rest is parsley on the plate."

He sighed, reassured. "Thank you, father."

"I will hate to see you go, you know."

Stiles smiled at him. "With any luck, I'll not be far," he said. "Hale House is but seven miles away."

"Is that still your wish?"

"It is."

"And he understood you, when spoke to him at Lady Mathis's?"

"I believe so." He whispered, "But he may not have noticed me."

John Stilinski patted his cheek. "Oh, I am certain he _noticed_. Let us call for the carriage?"

They collected Mrs. Honoria and set off, reaching the palatial Jamesbury Hall after dark. The great manor house was beautifully lit with witchcraft torches in orange and gold, and full of people in their finest clothes. Stiles immediately felt less awkward: he knew he looked his best, but his was hardly the most eye-catching outfit of the evening. He spotted Erica Reyes in a purple-blue gown that clung to her fine bosom and opened like a morning-glory flower to display the pale skin of her shoulders and throat. Omegas were not expected to socialize with each other - what would be the point of that? - but when he caught her eye he mouthed the word "beautiful" at her, and she pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile, and winked in reply.

Stiles was issued a glass of lemonade, a dance card and pencil, and stern instructions about staying where John Stilinski and Mrs. Honoria could see him, and sent off to enjoy the ball.

Waltzing was permitted - very proper waltzing, with a proper amount of space between the partners, enforced by fierce glares from the chaperones. Stiles stood up with his brother, Scott, who teased him about the kohl around his eyes. "Not all of us have such naturally lovely eyes, Mr. McCall," responded Stiles, and they batted their eyelashes at each other outrageously throughout their dance.

He stood up with Lord Jackson Wittemore, who again complimented him on his ass, and whom he again rebuffed. He stood up with Isaac Lahey, who was pale and apologetic. Something was terribly wrong with Isaac; he made a  mental note to ask his father to call upon Mr. Lahey.

He danced with more people, men and women, than he could properly recall, and smiled at them correctly, and, as had happened at the picnic, the room grew warm and thick with the pheromones of suppressed excitement, as the alphas and omegas danced together, close but not close enough. Stiles was not caught up in the thrill; he escaped each dance partner with relief, always hoping the next would be Lord Derek Hale.

For Lord Derek was here, in plain but correct evening clothes. (Stiles thought plain black-and-white evening clothes had never become anyone more handsomely.) He occasionally caught his scent, though fortunately it was never strong enough to titillate him. Once he saw Lord Derek in the card-room, playing poker. Occasionally Stiles spotted him at the bar, getting himself a drink. Lord Derek did not dance, nor did he engage the other omegas waiting to dance. Sometimes, Stiles thought perhaps Lord Derek was watching him. But he could not be sure.

Stiles desperately longed to dance with him, and feared that his body would utterly betray him if he did. Someday, he promised himself, he and Derek would dance together in private, where the intimacy of their relationship would permit no secrets, no judgments.

At one o'clock in the morning, Stiles retired temporarily from the dance floor, for a drink and a plate of cold meats and cheeses. Scott joined him while he ate, and they sat side-by-side for a time, commenting upon the other dancers. He spotted Cora Hale in a maidenly silver-white gown, aquamarines sparkling around her neck as she led an omega in a waltz. On the other side of the ballroom stood Lord Derek, watching Cora.

But not only that, because then Lord Derek's eyes sought out and found Stiles's. Between the shifting bodies of the dancers, as though pulled by Stiles's gaze, Lord Derek met Stiles's eyes. He regarded him soberly. Stiles looked into Lord Derek's eyes - in the candlelight, at this distance, one could not see the color, but he knew they were extraordinary, hazel-green.

Without thinking, Stiles smiled at him, all the warmth and interest he felt for him, shining in his eyes.

Lord Derek's jaw tightened, and he did not smile; he looked away without acknowledging him. Stiles kept smiling, but his heart sank into gloom.

"Ah, look," said Scott, nudging him with a shoulder. "See how Mrs. Honoria stares at me like an insect in a glass of milk. I've spent too long by your side." He rose. "Someday either you or I will be married, brother, and we can spend time together again."

"Until then, Scott."


	8. A Dance, A Cigarette, A Heart of Fire

 He danced all night. 

He drank lemonade, ate sugar-decorated cakes, and danced. Bowed to each partner at the end of each dance, bowed to greet the next partner, and danced again. His feet grew sore from dancing, and really, after a time, there was no one left with whom he had not danced twice (except, of course, Lord Derek). Naturally he would not dance a third time with any partner, lest gossip assign to him a partiality; and so he retired to stand against a wall, listening to the hired musicians (who were surely growing weary), watching the graceful dancers, their colorful clothes swirling, their jewels shining in the lamplight.

And so he was not on the dance floor when the tone of the party changed. The dancing grew too lively; dancers pulled each other too close; hands were ardently pressed. Some omegas grew so bold as to flash their violet eyes at their alpha dance partners; some alphas leaned in to brush a cheek against an exposed omega throat, marking it with pheromones. Someone, it seemed, had spiked the lemonade, and the fetters of proper behavior grew weak.

Only belatedly did the chaperones notice something was amiss, and then they moved like a well-trained military unit, separating overexcited couples, removing inebriated guests to quiet rooms where they might calm down alone, calling for wraps and carriages to send them home.  

Stiles was not unaffected; he'd been pouring lemonade down his throat all night, for the room was hot. But his excitement did not rise; he was unaffected by redolence of the alphas that charged the air. Nevertheless, he did feel a bit dizzy and lightheaded, and the increasing displays of sexual aggression on the dance floor - bold sniffing, gloves pulled down to expose _bare wrists_ \- alarmed him. He needed to get away from this. 

He found a French door that led outside onto a pretty terrace, paved in slate. It was not proper to go outside unchaperoned, but still less was it proper to remain indoors, when the ball guests were spinning out of control. Stiles stepped across the terrace and found a stone bench to sit on. He sat for a while, admiring the moon and the stars, the scent the gardens below him, and waited for his dizziness to abate.

"Not enjoying the ball, Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles looked up to see Lord Derek Hale standing on the terrace, nearly invisible in the shadows in his dark clothes. Then the lord stepped forward, and was bathed in the pale slanting light of the setting moon. He held a cigarette between scissored fingers and, as Stiles watched, placed it between his lips. The flame from his lighter limned the planes of his face, briefly, with gold. 

Stiles had never thought smoking an attractive habit, until he saw Lord Derek do it. Now he watched, avidly, as Lord Derek drew smoke into his lungs, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and then blew a stream of smoke into the air. He shivered as sugar-sweet arousal spread through his body. His blood ran hot within his suddenly too-tight skin; his lips felt sensitive.

With the exception of his father, Stiles had never been entirely alone with an unmated alpha in his life. Even with Scott, even when they were children, their parents or servants had always been nearby. Stiles glanced about the garden, his ears straining; no one else was about.

Lord Derek surely knew that this meeting was improper, and yet here he was. Stiles would be correct to protest that this was improper - but that he would not do. He would not fumble this precious second chance.

He said carefully, "The dancers have grown rather disorderly, my lord."

Lord Derek exhaled smoke into the air. "You do not give the impression that disorder offends you, Mr. Stilinski."

Whatever could he mean by that? Stiles wondered. He licked his dry lips. "This is only my third outing in society. I'm unused to it."

"Oh, indeed." Lord Derek snorted softly. "Shall I leave you, then?"

_No no, don't go._ "It would be a sad pity to waste your cigarette," he said.

Derek came closer, wreathed in smoke. "Would you like one?"

Stiles flushed. Was Lord Derek trying to shock him? Unmarried omegas did not smoke; nice men did not offer them cigarettes. "No," said Stiles, greatly daring. "But I would taste yours."

Lord Derek hesitated, as if startled by his boldness; but then he approached, took the cigarette from between his lips and extended it to Stiles, who took it and placed it in his mouth. He did not inhale - coughing one's lungs up would not be an attractive look, surely - but he held it in his mouth, his throat closed against the smoke. His lips just where Derek's had been, he touched the base of the cigarette with the tip of his tongue. When he handed it back to Lord Derek, he saw that the man's mouth was quirked with amusement.

"Not as innocent as you look, are you?" said Lord Derek.

"On the contrary," said Stiles, gathering his courage. "I am immaculate."

"You do not cough."

"The taste of your lips distracted me," Stiles said, "so that I could not breathe."

Lord Derek's eyebrows went up a fraction. 

Perhaps it was the moonlight, or the lemonade, or the thrill in his blood, but Stiles abandoned caution. He stood up from the bench and stepped close to Lord Derek, too close for propriety; close enough to fill his nostrils with Lord Derek's scent - not just the smoke on his breath, but the soap he'd used to wash, and the citrus pomade in his hair, and the warmth rising from his skin, the smell, beneath the smoke and the soap, that was uniquely _him_.

And Stiles's own body, already stirred, responded to that scent of its own volition, as it had done every other time he'd smelled him - his skin tingled and nipples tightened, his heart pounded and his cock twitched, his channel throbbed with the beat of his heart. Just as though he was entering his heat, but he wasn't - it was Lord Derek alone, causing this reaction. He looked up into Lord Derek's green-hazel eyes, hiding nothing.

"I am purer than snow," he said, knowing that Lord Derek could smell it, how his body had readied itself for intimacy. "But my dreams are full of fire."

Lord Derek's green eyes flared. He stepped backwards, away from him, and Stiles wanted to step forward, to remain close to him; but he must not. An omega must not pursue. He remained still, knowing that his scent would speak for him.

"Be careful, boy," said Lord Derek. "If you let yourself be caught by me, you'll spoil your chance at a good place."

"I believe I know my place," said Stiles.

"And where's that?"

"Wherever you put me, my lord."

A muscle worked in Lord Derek's jaw. And then Stiles smelled it - oh, _oh_ , the scent of Lord Derek's desire, hot in his nostrils. The man wanted him, too. Oh, to know that he was not alone in this sweet agony. Stiles nearly moaned. He could not control himself; he swayed forward, staring into Lord Derek's eyes, his lips parted with discovery.


	9. In Which Mr. Stilinski is Chastened

But Lord Derek stepped back.

He crushed out his cigarette on the terrace railing, the flame at its tip flaring and then dying. "I will be frank," he said. "You are glorious, never doubt it; and I would like nothing more than to give you exactly what you are asking for. But I am the guardian of a headstrong girl, who looks to me for an example of propriety. I will do nothing untoward, not with such a creature as you, nor chance bringing her into contact with such an improper influence."

Stiles rocked back on his heels, thrown from delight into confusion. _Improper influence?_ "My lord?"

"Your boldness speaks for itself. And I have seen you welcoming the touch of no fewer than three separate men, all the while throwing darts of lust at me," said Lord Derek.

Stiles's jaw dropped open, as the import of Lord Derek's words struck home. He drew himself upright, indignant.

"You are like the omegas of old," the lord went on, "sporting with whichever alpha can catch you. I admire your spirit, for I sometimes tire of the customs and conventions that bind our natures; and the beast in me would welcome the opportunity to test you to your utmost. But as I am a gentleman and brother to a lady, I tell you now, Mr. Stilinski: I will have none of you. Return to your other admirers, and cease to devil me; or, better, find your father and reform your ways, before you bring scandal upon his good name."

"Lord Derek," he breathed. "You wrong me!"

Lord Derek deliberately sniffed the air, where the scents of their twin arousals still merged. "I think not entirely, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles backed away, until his shoulders struck the cold glass of the French door; then he turned, fumbled with the latch, and fled inside.

The party was truly breaking up now. The the tainted lemonade bowl had been whisked away. Parents and chaperones were rounding up their charges and removing them from the scene, not always entirely without incident; Stiles saw his own father, his own chaperone, busy helping. 

All the beauty of the ball - the glittering jewels, shining candlelight, lovely costumes - all now looked tawdry, scant covering for a mating ritual that was ugly and cruel. The music had stopped, and the musicians sat at their instruments, waiting, Stiles supposed, to be paid.

He hardly knew what to think; he could scarcely process what had just happened. 

He had dared all, dared to reveal all his passion, and had been instantly rejected, his hopes shattered. And why? His mind shied away from the words Lord Derek had said. In a daze, he wandered towards the piano, sat down upon its bench with a thump, beside its idle pianist.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked the pianist.

Stiles shook his head. He could not speak; his throat was full of a painful lump, his heart seemed to be made of broken glass. He stripped the gloves off his sweating hands and dropped them to the floor, hating the artifice of his carefully pretty clothes. What did it matter? The piano beckoned him like a friend, and he set his bare fingers to the smooth ivory keys.

He played. He played Chopin's etude "Tristesse," the tumbling discordant notes of which then flowed without pause into his own composition, "Song for Derek." He played it, poured into it all his passionate hopes, all his joyful expectations, and then transposed it into minor key and let it shatter with the clear, pure pain that he felt in his heart, letting his humiliation and loss of hope ring out through the ballroom. He did not notice the people, lords and ladies, guests, servants, standing about the room, transfixed by the song, as though their hearts, too, were breaking.

Finally Mrs. Honoria came to collect him.

"We must be going, Mr. Stilinski," she said.

He stilled his fingers, rubbed his bare hand over his face, surprised when it came away wet. "I must be going, sir," Stiles said to the pianist. "Thank you, sir."

"Have a nice evening, sir," said the pianist, as Mrs. Honoria led him away.

"Whatever your father is thinking," she fumed, pressing a handkerchief into his hands, "permitting you to play piano at all hours, I have no idea. Wipe your face, Mr. Stilinski. I do not pretend your playing isn't very pretty, but a well-bred gentleman does not play the piano at balls. Servants do that. Stand up straight, Mr. Stilinski, and do not sniffle. I declare, how Lady Jameson allowed her lemonade-bowl to become polluted I cannot understand. I assure you, sir, in my day the scandal would have been ruinous. Ruinous! And if hasty and ill-advised marriages do not result from this night's work, I shall be most surprised. Mr. Stilinksi, what have you done with your gloves?"

"I think I've lost them," he said humbly, following her across the now-deserted dance floor.

The butler found their wraps and coats, they joined the remaining guests who were lined up on the front porch, awaiting their carriages. Stiles's breath steamed in the night air; it was cold. He was unaware that he was shivering when Scott came and caught his hands. "Brother, your hands are like ice," Scott chided him. "Are you unwell? Did you drink any of that lemonade?"

"Only a little," he said, faintly. "Did you?"

"I am sober as the Regent's mother." Scott stripped off his own gloves and pressed Stiles's cold hands between his warm ones. "I heard that Isaac Lahey is the one who spiked it. He has left in disgrace with his furious papa, and I am worried about him. I'm worried about _you_. What has happened, Stiles? Are you all right?"

"No." Scott was rubbing Stiles's cold fingers between his palms, and Stiles's eyelids closed. "I think not. I think I am an embarrassing and improper ..." What had Lord Derek called him? "...creature," finished Stiles. "I think I am an improper creature."

"Never," murmured Scott. "Stiles, whatever happened, you could never deserve such a verdict."

Stiles opened his eyes. Scott's face, dear and crooked and kind, was close to his. Over Scott's shoulder, he saw that Lord Derek was watching them. His eyes were pointed, looking at the way Stiles's hands were clasped in Scott's; his eyebrows twitched, as if to say, _See_?

Stiles was suddenly very angry.

How dared Lord Derek judge him, for his hands in his brother's? Was the man Stiles had ached for so egotistical, so supercilious, such a prig? Was he indeed so petty and small minded? Stiles stared at Lord Derek without flinching, unaware that his face was marked with tears.

He looked away first, his chin high with contempt, and he did not see the expression of confusion and regret cross Lord Derek's handsome face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you to know that your comments make me so happy. I haven't responded to each individually, but I read them all and I'm so thrilled that other people are enjoying this ridiculous horny thing I've created. Thank you! More chapters to come.


	10. Two Letters

Major Stilinski,

My dear John,

It is in light of the coolness with which you received me, when we met last night at the home of Lady Mathis, that I write to you today. It grieves me to think that I have forfeited my place in your esteem, even temporarily, and I hope that an explanation will restore terms of friendliness between us.

As you know, I have raised my sister since she was an infant, and I little more than a youth. I have been bewildered at how best to proceed many times, when in her headstrong inexperience she behaved badly. And so it was with her in mind, that I grew concerned, when, upon every occasion I ever saw him, your son seemed to be courting the attentions of others. I may have overstepped my place, sir, when I sought him out, hoping to issue a warning - as an elder, and as a friend of his parent's. When he then surprised me by courting my attentions as well, I was perhaps harsher than necessary, in seeking to correct him.

I hope you will forgive me for my frankness. Your son is attractive, and the attractive will attract, unless their behavior is perfect. Please know that it was not my intention to cause him distress, nor to intrude upon your prerogative as his father. And I hope that the amity that I have long valued, from a near neighbor, will soon be restored.

Your affectionate friend,

Lord Derek Hale

 

 

My lord,

I received your letter with great astonishment, not only for the lies it contained in regards to my son, but for its bold expectation that such lies would go unanswered. You sadly misunderstand my son's character, and mine as well.

My son has for some months held you in his heart, with an intensity of devotion that excludes all others. Knowing his heart to be a warm and golden thing, and believing you to be a man of sense, it pleased me to hope that the two of you would reach a happy understanding. Imagine my surprise, then, to hear of your odious falsehoods pertaining to his integrity.

A spoilt and audacious lordling harassed him - a troubled young drunkard stumbled into him - and one whom he has always loved as a brother showed him affection. From these insignificant strips, I apprehend, you chose to weave a whip of shame with which you scourged him, at the moment he first unveiled his hopes to you. 

No explanation can restore amity between us two, my lord; not after my son, who loved you, wept upon my shoulder. He may have been clumsy; I do not doubt that he was importunate. To reject an unwanted lover is the right of every alpha. But my lord, I will be plain. To answer the hopeful gracelessness of an inexperienced omega with cruel scorn was the act of a callous brute.

Should these words offend you, only say so, and I will prove them upon your body with sword or pistol, fang or claw, as you choose. And should I hear your slander bandied about the neighborhood, my Lord Derek, I will silence it at its source.

Please believe me,

Ever your obedient servant,

Brevet Major John Stilinski, R.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want, you can listen to the Chopin etude that Stiles played in the last chapter [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IahA8_jZ8cE). I think it came out in the 1830s, so it's an anachronism. (So is the cigarette.)


	11. In Which A Young Lord Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny bit of violence in this chapter. Nothing as strong as canon, but since this is otherwise so very fluffy I thought I'd better mention it.

 

That autumn, Stiles attended no further balls, picnics, teas, or music-parties. His lovely new wardrobe was packed in trunks for another time, and he was thereafter absent from the marriage-mart. If this occasioned unkind gossip, he did not know of it.

He had begged his father's forgiveness; but he simply could make no further attempt. He asked, "Do you remember when I said ... that I felt something different, something I'd never felt before? And you said that mother had felt that way, for you?" When his father nodded, Stiles went on, "What if, by some chance, you had not married her? Would she have learned to feel something for someone else, do you suppose? Or was it something she could only ever feel once, and only for one?"

His father was silent for a moment, he said, "Some say that for some wolves, it only ever occurs once, in all their lives. I know, if she were here, she would say it was that way for her - that I was the only one she would ever accept. But she might have been flattering me. And we did marry, so it was never tested." His blue eyes were sad. "Stiles, I do not know."

Stiles nodded. "I think - I only think, sir, that right now, I cannot feel that way again. Perhaps some day, but not - not now. And yet, I know I must marry before spring-"

"No," said John Stilinski. "No, Stiles, it was never my intention to marry you unwilling, you know that. No, if you cannot face the prospect of marriage, then we will find somewhere for you to go."

And so letters were written, and a plan was hatched, for Stiles to go live with his father's brother, a professor at the University of Edinburgh. There Stiles would study composition, and read and study, and turn his mind away from mating, while his father got on with his long-intended marriage to Mrs. McCall. 

If Stiles resented - most bitterly resented - the judgment that had been laid upon him, that drove him from his home, when he was innocent of the charges against him, it did no good to belabor it.

After several days of self-imposed isolation, Scott McCall broke in upon his solitude, and demanded that he be more cheerful. Mr. McCall's attention had been attracted by a pretty dark-eyed omega, and he wanted to buy her some small gift to declare his intent to court her. He thought to visit the armorer to buy her a weapon. And he campaigned so assiduously for Stiles's company, that he had no choice but to agree to escort his brother into the town. 

So it was that on one rainy afternoon, he, Scott, and his doughty chaperone Mrs. Honoria walked into town. The rain had been mild when they'd set out, but it was increasing, so Stiles held an umbrella over his and Mrs. Honoria's head while Scott carried his own. Stiles found his spirits lifting, at the outing; the November day was dark, but the wind felt fresh and cold on his face, and it seemed to blow cobwebs of grief and humiliation out of his mind, leaving his thoughts clear. He found that he was able to follow the conversation between Mrs. Honoria and Scott McCall with some approximation of his usual lively interest.

"The first gift from an alpha to an omega must be exactly correct," said Mrs. Honoria. "It declares the alpha's intent to pursue. It must be small - an extravagant gift suggests that the alpha is confident of his success; but a very dainty stiletto, one that might be concealed in her costume, would not be inappropriate." 

"How does a dagger declare your intent to pursue?" grinned Stiles.

Scott shrugged, smiling. "She likes blades."

"A gift suited to the lady's tastes shows that you have taken care to know her," approved Mrs. Honoria.

"And it gives her the option to stab you, should you irritate her," said Stiles. Distracted, he did not notice Lord Derek Hale, emerging from a bookshop ahead.

Mrs. Honoria said, "Subsequent gifts will symbolize your intent to care for your omega, to supply her with all she needs."

"Oh, yes," agreed Scott, with enthusiasm. "I want to give her food. I can hardly express, Mrs. Honoria, how ardently I long to give her food."

"Mr. Stilinski!" Stiles looked around and saw Lord Jackson Whittemore come trotting up the street towards the party, his hands held above his head to ward off the increasing rain. "Shelter, I beg!" he cried, laughing, and ducked under the umbrella with Stiles and Mrs. Honoria. There was little room, and plenty of space beneath Scott's shade, but Lord Jackson crowded against Stiles under the umbrella. His true purpose became clear when, unseen by the chaperone, pressed a hand low on the seat of Stiles's trousers, a finger insinuating up between his cheeks. Stiles gasped and stared at him.

Lord Jackson smirked. "Thank you for making a place for me," he said, brashly confident that Stiles would not risk scandal by protesting.

In this he was mistaken; Stiles no longer cared about impressing society with pretty ways. "Mrs. Honoria, will you take the umbrella, please?" When she did, he seized Lord Jackson's wrist and twisted it, hard, turning his body so that Lord Jackson spun about. He wrenched Lord Jackson's arm behind him, up between his shoulder blades.

And then, there they were: in the street, in the rain, Lord Jackson doubled over to ease the strain on his twisted arm, entirely at Stiles's mercy.

"Ah!" cried Lord Jackson, voice high with shock. "You are hurting me!"

"I told you," Stiles said, thoroughly annoyed, "that if you touched me again you might lose this hand."

"Mr. Stilinski!" protested Lord Jackson, breathless with pain. "I have no idea what you -" Stiles twisted his arm. "Ah - I beg - release me!"

"Should I release him, Mrs. Honoria?" asked Stiles, unmindful of the rain falling in his hair. "Or should I break his arm?"

"I vote for the break," said Scott, ever-cheerful. "I've heard complaints about Lord Jackson's hands from three other omegas. He does it cleverly, in front of chaperones, but in a way that they will not see; and pretends innocence, when anyone protests."

"Oh, indeed?" asked Stiles.

"No," panted Lord Jackson, half doubled-over to relieve the pressure on his arm.

Until this moment Stiles was smiling - annoyed, certainly, at the cold rain falling upon him, and at the intrusion of Lord Jackson upon his person - but he had been taught to take care of himself by the best fighter in the king's artillery, and, accompanied by his chaperone and his brother, he felt himself in no particular danger. He rather relished his triumph over Lord Jackson and his exploratory hand.

But then he happened to look up and saw, through the veil of rain, Lord Derek, watching the whole exchange.

Lord Derek had once again seen him, touched by another alpha. Now cavorting in the rain with that alpha, without regard to propriety. No doubt, that Lord was even now thinking that Stiles was a disgrace.

_A creature such as you_ , he'd called him.

Had Stiles been at a vantage to perceive himself, he'd have seen his face go white with fury, his lips peel back from needle-sharp teeth, his eyes flash incandescent violet. He very nearly shifted fully into his beta-form, as phosphorescent rage rushed through him. He glared at Lord Derek through a hot purple mist. His hand involuntarily clenched, and he crushed the bones of Lord Jackson's wrist in his grip, with a faint popping sound, like sticks of chalk.

Lord Jackson shrieked and fell to his knees in the saturated mud of the street. Stiles stood there above Lord Jackson, gripping his wrist and glaring violet hatred over his head at Derek, as the rain fell between them.

Derek stepped backwards.

Lady Honoria moved in front of him, blocking his view of Lord Derek. "Mr. Stilinski," she said, calmly. "Perhaps you should look at me, and take a few deep breaths. Breathe in deeply, to a count of four." He obeyed, focusing on her on not on Lord Derek, felt himself calming, the haze before his eyes clearing. "Now exhale, slowly. One, two, three, four. And now perhaps you might relax your grip on Lord Jackson."

"Oh." He opened his hand, and Lord Jackson collapsed with a whimper of pain, body curled around his hand. "Well," Stiles said, trying to feel some sort of regret, "he was warned."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow," said Scott, clasping Stiles on the shoulder. "Shall we go on? Look, the tea shop on the corner is inviting. You will get dry and warm, and we will have a cup of tea and a cake before we go to the armorer."

Stiles, feeling a little light-headed in the aftermath of his consuming anger, allowed them to draw him away. They moved down the street, leaving Lord Jackson to heal himself. Scott glowered menacingly at Lord Derek, as they passed him; Stiles did not raise his eyes.


	12. An Alpha Comes to Tea

Stiles was in the music room at Beacons the next afternoon, scribbling notes on his latest composition with his right hand while he picked out a melody with his left. He had been working all day, obsessively ironing out the difficulties in a complicated piece for piano and string quartet, and the sound of his labors had driven everyone, master and servant, out of the house. All were gone, except for faithful Mrs. Honoria, who must remain, and who had taken refuge in sleep in a comfortable chair beside the fire.

A sound roused him from his concentration, and he snapped, "What?" before glancing up to see Lord Derek Hale, framed by the garden door of the music room.

His hand on the piano keys went still. Without thinking, he said, "Why on earth?"

"Forgive me for intruding," said Lord Derek, his voice soft. "I rang at the front door, and none answered. And ... I heard the piano."

Stiles stared at him. "So you came around through the garden?"

"I - yes."

The lord appeared to have dressed carefully for this visit. His neck and cheeks, below and above his beard, were freshly shaven; his charcoal suit sober but well-cut to show the lean strength of his body, the gray-green waistcoat matching his eyes. Stiles was uncomfortably conscious of his own comparative untidiness: his loose trousers, frayed shirt, battered dressing-gown and ink-stained hands. The room was a mess, books and papers and pens and penknives scattered on every surface, a viola out of its case on a chair, a litter of old teacups and crumbed plates. 

The only sound in the room - in the whole house - was the soft snores of Mrs. Honoria, fast asleep in the corner.

Stiles flushed, and frowned at his intruder. Why should he be unquiet about his dress? He had arrayed himself as beautifully as he knew how, once, and Lord Derek had still rejected him. What cared he, if he were not properly chaperoned? He was innocent, and his character had been judged by Lord Derek anyway. If the man came to him here in his home, he would see him just as he was, ink-stains and all.

"Well, you might as well come in and say what you will," he said. "Since you're here."

Lord Derek, to his surprise, was visibly ill at ease. His gaze flicked about the room, taking in the disorder, the unmistakable signs that this was Stiles's territory, the sleeping chaperone, and he shuffled his feet awkwardly. Stiles made no move to rescue him, so he carefully moved the viola out of the chair and set it on the ground, and took its seat. 

He said, "Thank you," he said, formally. "I see you are busy. Do you compose? It was ... it was an original composition I heard you play, then, at Lady Jameson's ball?"

Whatever Stiles had expected, it was not this: Derek Hale, awkward. The man had never seemed less than fully self-possessed before; now his confusion was oddly touching. And God help him, if he were not just as fine now as he had ever been, face and form. 

No. Stiles pressed his lips together, remembering all the reasons he had to be angry with the lord, and said, "Yes, I compose. Yes, it was. I did not think you had heard it."

"I did," he said. "I was - I was moved by it."

"Oh, I am very moving," said Stiles.

In a way, Stiles's disappointment in Lord Derek freed his tongue. He no longer had any hopes of Lord Derek, and so he might indulge his tendency to chatter, without fearing rejection. He waved a hand, indicating the emptiness of Beacons. "You see the effect I have upon the household; I am like a witch in a tale. I play the same bar over and over again, with minute variations, until upon the hundredth repetition, or the five-hundredth, all must either flee, or fall into a deathlike trance." He played the bar again, for his left hand still rested upon the keyboard; and added, "I cannot call for tea, therefore."

"I don't require tea." Derek's eyes were on Stiles's left hand, at the keys. "Thank you. I had hoped, after seeing you in town yesterday, for a private word." He glanced at Mrs. Honoria, and smiled a little. "Though I dared not hope for as much privacy as this. I did not anticipate your magic powers."

"I am in no particular mood to be scolded again," Stiles said, coolly. "I know you judge me too liberal, but you can hardly find me too liberal, here in my own home."

Lord Derek visibly winced. He took a deep breath and said, "No, I - I came here to apologize, most sincerely, to your father, and to you, for the last time we spoke. I judged too quickly, and too harshly. I have learned much since."

More and more unexpected. "Really? What have you learned, that you did not know before?"

"That Mr. McCall is truly your brother, and not what I thought. And that Lord Jackson is, according to many whispers, secretively persistent in pestering unwilling omegas. And of course, what I saw yesterday in town bears out those lessons, and not my judgement." His face slowly turned red as he spoke. "Mr. Stilinski, I damaged my friendship with your father, and I believe I caused you pain, when I ought to have been ... most honored ... by your ... And I am sorry."

Angry, Stiles said, "You attempted to damage _my_ relationship with my father, by writing him the letter he showed me; and that would have been a bitterer blow than anything you could ever say to _me_."

Lord Derek dropped his eyes. "That was never my intention," he said humbly, "and I am glad to report that my letter had no such result."

"I know. He would not permit me to read his letter to you, but I imagine I know its import."

Lord Derek flushed even redder. He said, "I can only say, in explanation, that after my wife died, and then my parents, I spent little time with others, except for my sister, who assures me that I am a blockhead at social interactions, with any outside of a small circle. I suppose I am unpracticed, at the rituals of behavior that define relationships between strangers."

"I said something of that nature to you once," remarked Stiles. "You did not believe me."

And that was the enigma. Not whether Lord Derek regretted what he'd thought of Stiles, as he appeared to; but why he had thought it, and whether he would always be prone to think the worst of him.

Stiles turned to his piano, away from the face of the man of whose smiles and kisses he had once dreamed. He put both hands to the piano's keys and played - not the piece that he had been working on, but Mozart, his old beloved friend Mozart. The final movement of the Horn Concerto No. 4, which he had years before transcribed for piano. It gamboled from his fingertips, bounding and tumbling like puppies running through tall grass. 

It often happened, that he would begin playing confused, and finish decided. Concentrating on the technique, the expression, the sense of the music, seemed to free his mind to work on other puzzles. And now, as the last notes of Mozart fell into silence, he found he had made a decision. 

He must stop caring about Lord Derek Hale. He must not hate him, he must not love him; he must school his body to forget him, and cool the fire in his heart. He must find a way to achieve indifference to this man; must learn, somehow, to see him only as his father's neighbor, his father's friend. Must certainly discourage whatever impulse brought him here today. Must forgive him.

Must, above all, and right now, get him out of this house.

"You are disappointed," Stiles said. Lord Derek had listened to the music silently, his elbows upon his knees, his head down; Stiles could not see his expression. Stiles went on, "You disapproved of the carefree animal you thought I was, but you liked it, too. But my lord, it was only ever an illusion. No wild spirit lives here, no glorious creature, disdaining to adhere to the strictures of society. It was only that I was too callow to hide my impulses, and also too conventional to act upon them. You see me now exactly as I am: only a dull scribbler. Only a piano player."

Lord Derek raised his eyes, a degree of wolfishness - wild, fierce, and vulnerable - visible in his gaze. 

"Now there, Mr. Stilinski," he said, "we must disagree."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested, the piece Stiles plays is the rondo to Mozart's Horn Concerto No. 4, transcribed for piano. You can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnUjNIoybRU).


	13. In Which Nothing Happens In The Garden

 

Stiles's heart stuttered. He looked away from Derek's eyes; he had no other defense.

Attempting to maintain a casual tone, he shrugged a shoulder. "Well, obviously we have both been mistaken, each in our own way; the details hardly matter. I am happy accept your apology; it was, after all, only a misunderstanding, on both of our parts." Stiles stood up. "Let us speak no more of it. Come, I'll walk you out."

He gestured towards the garden door, and Lord Derek rose and allowed himself to be escorted out of the house and into the garden.

"I expect my father will forgive you in time, as well," he said, leading him past bare apple trees and leafless rose-bushes bearing fat orange hips. "Did he threaten to kill you? That will have given him the greatest enjoyment; he so rarely has opportunity to threaten people anymore. He is fearsome, I grant you. But he loves a peaceful life, and will wish to be in amity with his neighbors, once I am gone."

"Are you going away?"

"Yes, in January, to my uncle's in Edinburgh. If the weather permits the journey."

He had every intention to continue prattling about the weather while politely ejecting Lord Derek from the grounds, but the man stayed him, a gloved hand on the arm of his dressing gown. Stiles turned to look at him, questioningly, his heart beating faster. For it was improper, that Lord Derek should touch him, even with a gloved hand. They were entirely alone, in the garden; no one was in the house except Mrs. Honoria, no one was on the grounds.

"You said your relationship with your father was undamaged," said Lord Derek.

"It is."

"Then why must you go?"

"It hardly concerns you," said Stiles.

Those words were a mistake. Lord Derek's eyes flashed at the challenge; he stepped closer. "No concern of mine, if you leave? And if I choose to concern myself?"

"You mustn't," blurted Stiles. "Why would you?"

"I must." Lord Derek's voice dropped to a whisper, and he stepped closer. And now Stiles could detect in the air the scent of Lord Derek's longing, and no, _no_ , this mustn't happen. He could not hope to pretend indifference, not with the scent of Derek's desire, intoxicating him.

"My lord," he said, with as much firmness as he could manage, stepping away though his knees shook and his heart pounded. "You mistake me; you must ever be mistaking me. I hardly recognize myself, in your eyes; for you are quite, quite mistaken."

"Am I?" Derek made to pursue him, and Stiles held up a hand, continued walking backwards away from him.

"You think me a wild creature," he said, unable to control the tremor in his voice. "You called me glorious, but you are wrong. You think you can call to my wildness, to lure me out from behind society's rules -"

"I don't -"

"You do," said Stiles. "You approach me when I am alone, you press your interests where no one can see; you imagine th - that -"

He stammered to a halt, for Lord Derek had come after him, backed him up against the side of the house, and stood over him, but an inch away from him. The scent of his desire rolled over Stiles in an exhilarating wave; he breathed it in. His entire body went hot and cold. His cock, already thick and sensitive, hardened in a tingling rush. All the rules of propriety demanded that he stop this, but Lord Derek's alpha called for him, and his omega soul cried _Yes_.

Stiles was breathing as though he had sprinted a mile, his back pressed against the side of the house. He held himself still by effort of will and said, huskily, "You imagine that the wildness in my blood will override my sense, my lord, but I tell you, you are mistaken."

"I think," whispered Derek, "that I have never been less mistaken in my life."

Lord Derek ducked his head, breathed the scent of Stiles's skin, and Stiles was nearly mindless with the desire to arch up, flatten his entire body against the length of Derek's, every sensitive inch of his skin afire to press against him. Derek smiled then, wickedly. Baring white teeth, Derek brought his right hand to his mouth and bit down on the tip of one gloved finger. Slowly he bit each of the gloves' fingers, and then drew the glove it off his hand with his teeth, staring into Stiles's eyes the whole while, as Stiles stood frozen, gulping for breath, his entire body pulsing with need, so powerful that he could not speak.

"I know you have never been touched," murmured Derek. 

His bare hand cupped Stiles's face, and Stiles gasped at this first, forbidden contact of skin against skin. His eyes fell closed. "I know that you need to be touched, Mr. Stilinski. You need it, right now. And were you mine -" his beard just brushed Stiles's skin - "I would take care of you. I would kneel, right here, and give you my fingers to ride, and suck you -"

Stiles emitted a whine.

He must, he _must protest_ , he must push the man away, but he did not. Derek ducked his head, lips and nose nuzzling Stiles's neck, his throat - scenting his response, the way his cock issued a tiny surge of wetness with each pulse. And with every breath he took, Stiles knew that Derek too needed release, that his cock was heavy and throbbing with need for it.

He knew - _they both knew_ \- that if Derek turned Stiles around, bent him over, right here and now, that he would meet no struggle, but only the glad welcome of Stiles's body.

So his mind clamored protest, but his body surrendered utterly, and his mouth stayed silent.

"This is madness," said Lord Derek, his voice rough. "What am I doing." His lips brushed a kiss against Stiles's temple, and he backed away. "I didn't come here for this. I came here to give you my apology. And to give you this."

Stiles forced his eyes open. He watched as Derek, his chest visibly heaving with hard breaths, put his glove back on, adjusted his trousers. Derek pulled a small box from his pocket and held it out to Stiles, who speechlessly took it.

"I will call upon your father, Mr. Stilinski," he said. "Good day." And he turned and strode away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Edited to add:] I find myself rewriting the entire ending of this fic. There may be a small delay in posting after this while I iron out my issues. I'll let you know.


	14. Voi Che Sapete

 

Stiles wandered back into the house, so shocked and aroused that he could not think. He shut himself in his room, his mind full of nothing but the images Lord Derek had placed there - himself, riding Derek's probing fingers, his cock in Derek's mouth - fell to his knees, and swiftly and without ceremony brought himself relief.

Afterwards, panting, he pressed his hot face to his pillow and sought to think through what had happened. 

He had betrayed himself. He had pretended indifference to Lord Derek, and Lord Derek had striped his pretense away as easily as removing his glove. He hardly knew himself. Except to know that, if Derek desired him, he would have him; all Stiles's protestations, all his good manners, his good family, his training, his lifetime of refined social behavior, these were nothing before Derek's fascination. 

Derek had been right about him all along. Not that he was indiscriminate - no, he would have only one, but for him, to have him, he would abandon all propriety. He would lose forsake all wisdom, prudence, respectability, to have him, even once.

Why, then, had Derek stopped? For Derek had felt the same - if he knew nothing, he knew that Derek had felt the same. Had Derek, too, sought privacy, that he might urgently surrender to his needs? Stiles's wolf cried out with protest, with desire to be of service to Derek, to be the one Derek turned to. 

He slicked his palm with saliva, and, slower this time, with greater deliberation, pleasured himself again.

Finally, he was able to be calm. He washed thoroughly, changed into clothes that did not smell of Lord Derek, and when he came back down to the main rooms of Beacons he found that his father was home, Mrs. Honoria was up and about. He did not seek them, but went into the music room without a word and sat at the piano. 

He played Cherubino's aria from Le Nozze di Figaro: the tremulous stirrings of a young omega, just tasting desire for the first time, full of innocence and elation and dismay, all at once.

>  I search for a treasure that is not within me,
> 
> I don't know who holds it, or where it is,
> 
> I sigh and moan, though I don't want to,
> 
> My heart races and trembles, and I know not why,
> 
> I find peace neither night nor day.

 

When he brought the song to its close, Mrs. Honoria, awakened too late to her chaperone duties, came into the room. "I found this on the floor," she said, holding the little velvet box Derek had given him. "What is this?"

"This? This is -" He took it from her, hastily, fumbled, dropped it. "It's nothing," he said, reaching for it. But Mrs. Honoria, swift for once in her life, scooped it up first. She opened it. Within shone a small brooch, the kind of inconspicuous but exquisite adornment appropriate for an unclaimed omega: a stylized running wolf in polished silver, with a tiny purple stone for its eye.

Mrs. Honoria inspected the pin with eyebrows raised.

"It is a courting-gift," she said.

"Oh," said Stiles. "It ... really?"

"A fleeing omega. It indicates an alpha's intention to pursue." She sniffed the box daintily. "Lord Derek Hale."

"He ... visited. But of course, no one was here, so he left again." Stiles ran a fingertip over the little wolf. "So ... you think it means ... that he wishes to marry me?"

"Of course he does," she said. "And he is going about it in a most proper and gentlemanly way."

Stiles giggled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to Cherubino's aria [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOvYfZol82k). I got the English translation of the lyrics from [here](https://www.scribd.com/doc/202205799/Voi-Che-Sapete-text-and-translation).


	15. The Proscribed Mating-Gifts

 

The news that Lord Derek Hale was officially courting Stiles was met with varied responses in the Stilinski household.

Mrs. Honoria wholeheartedly approved: Lord Derek was rich and well-bred, and his courting-gift had been most correct. Scott objected. His protective instincts were thoroughly aroused. "That he dares he think of you at all is the height of arrogance," he fumed. "I should thrash him."

"Please do not thrash him," insisted Stiles.

"Why, do you favor him?"

"I don't know." His feelings were divided; he was irresolute. He wanted Lord Derek; but Lord Derek had disrespected him, had disappointed him, in a most thorough way. He had had Lord Derek's apology, but without an explanation, how could he rely upon it?

"The entire purpose of courting," said Major, "is to see whether Stiles favors him. Stiles is wont to do things back-end-first, as we all know; but in this instance, we might remain at anchor to see how the wind blows."

And so the ceremony began. Lord Derek called upon the major and offered a full apology for his treatment of his son, and asking permission to court him. Stiles never knew what was said in that interview, but it must have been satisfactory to Lord Derek's hopes, for at dawn the following day, a basket was delivered to the kitchen at Beacons: fresh brown eggs, a slab of streaky bacon, a loaf of crusty bread still warm from the oven, a half-dozen shining red hothouse tomatoes. Tomatoes in November! 

Although they breakfasted well at Beacons that morning, Stiles found the meal maddeningly uncomfortable, the insistent bulge in his trousers hidden by the tablecloth. For Stiles's omega nature did not need Mrs. Honoria's tutelage to understand the import of a gift of food from an alpha.

Every day brought another - paper-wrapped beefsteaks, bundles of pork-and-sage sausages, a block of tangy white sheep's cheese, jars of gingered apple butter, flaky almond pastries, glittering with sugar. The excellence of the gifts was noted (Major Stilinski declared that the grocery budget at Beacons was halved), but did not really matter. Alphas with no money at all courted with wild mushrooms and herbs gleaned from the fields, and had the same exciting effect on the nervous systems of their omegas.

Other gifts came, too: a book of essays on the Goldberg Variations. A pair of amethyst stud earrings, which would surely look well with the little wolf pin, if he ever wore it.

Then, a letter, that accompanied a rectangular box. Stiles opened the box, stared uncomprehending at the jade wand that nested there in the velvet, wondering what it might be used for; and then he imagined exactly what it might be used for, and snapped the box shut before the major or Mrs. Honoria could see the contents. But his face must have spoken volumes, for they were both smiling.

Mrs. Honoria serenely said, "It is traditional, and correct, for an alpha to send a gift that embodies a promise to care for the omega's needs during his season." 

Stiles threw a look of horrified embarrassment at his father, gathered up his box and his letter, and fled to his bedroom.

The letter said,

>  
> 
> Mr. Stilinski,

> Respected sir,

> I wonder if you can imagine the apprehension with which I box up this gift. I fear you will be outraged at my boldness, and forbid the correspondence which you have thus far graciously allowed.

> I know well that we are near-strangers, and that this gift is audacious. And yet, on two occasions we shared a certain intimacy: we breathed one another's scents. How the memory of those occasions burns me! I burn with shame, when I recall the first, and would banish it from my thoughts. And, simultaneously, I burn with pleasurable agitation, when I remember the second time: your glowing eyes, your shining lips, the essence that you allowed me to drink, and I cannot resist, and must call it to mind again and again.

> I know you are a man of passion; and you know that I am, as well. And so, this gift. 

> As you know, I was married once before, to a lovely omega who died in childbirth with our son. When we married, she had spent every heat alone, with no one to serve her; and I, eighteen years old, knew as little as she about the service required. But now I am six-and-thirty; and though I have taken no lover since her death, yet I am no longer a boy. I am a man, and I know well what is needful. I hope this gift will suggest to you my ardent willingness to do whatever may be needful.

> Forever,

> Most faithfully,

> Your Derek

"Oh my _God_ ," said Stiles.

But it was Derek's next gift that moved Stiles out of his indecision. It was an envelope, containing a somewhat grubby, much-folded piece of paper. Stiles unfolded the paper and saw that it was a receipt for delivery of a new piano to Hale House. Stiles's eyes blurred as he read the specs: German craftsmanship; polished ebony cabinet; American spruce soundboard. Eighty-eight black and white keys of dream-come-true, delivered and tuned this day, November 28, 18-.

"Father," said Stiles. "Sir. I think, with your permission, that I will meet him."


	16. Pies and prejudice

The two men walked, one morning, from the center of town, where they had by arrangement met, towards a park where they might sit and talk. Faithful Mrs. Honoria walked on the opposite side of the road; close enough to observe their dealings, but at a distance that their conversation might be private.

Stiles wore the silver wolf pin in the lapel of his coat, and Lord Derek smiled to see it. Their conversation began with superficial things - the unusually fine weather, so late in November; the excellence of the road; the surprising (yet welcome) solitude they had on their walk, for no one else seemed to be about. Stiles praised the cinnamon pastries sent over from Hale House, and when they reached the park, and sat on a bench together, Lord Derek opened his satchel and produced cold meat hand pies, offering one to Stiles. He shivered a little, to receive a gift of food from the alpha's own hand. But he was hungry, and could scarcely deny his interest; so he took it with a smile of thanks, to Lord Derek's evident satisfaction.

The conversation grew more personal while they ate. Lord Derek was candid, and spoke of his wife, Paige; he had loved her with a youthful joy, and lost her, along with their son, in childbirth. "Sometimes I forget her face," he admitted. "For weeks at a time. And then, sometimes, I see something that she would like, or I hear a bit of news that would interest her, and I am surprised when all my grief returns, fresh as the first day after she died."

"I know that feeling exactly," said Stiles. "My mother sometimes still visits me, in my dreams. I am always surprised, when I wake, that she is gone."

Lord Derek's parents and brother and sister had died in a fire, not long after Paige's death. "I adopted Cora, and I did not think of them; I was too busy, terrified of making a mistake; too occupied with immediate concerns and tasks, to think of them at all. Until I stopped for a moment, and tried to rest, and there they would all be, waiting for me."

Stiles finished his pie, brushing crumbs from his gloved fingers. "Do you wish for more children?" he asked. For, of course, he could not give Lord Derek those.

"No," said Lord Derek. "Cora is my heir, and I need no other."

"But do you want children," persisted Stiles. "A sweet infant to rock."

Lord Derek smiled at him - that heartbreaking smile, so unexpected, so beautiful. "I do not. I love my sister, Mr. Stilinski, but Cora was a thunderstorm, brilliant and sensitive, and each new day brought a new mood. I do not wish to raise another."

"You don't miss it? How she was, when she was a little girl?"

"How she deliberately tore her schoolbooks to bits, and spilled her ink and broke her pencils, so that she would not have to study? Or how, when I scolded her, she used to cry so hard that she would vomit, and passionately declare that it was my fault, because she hated me so?" inquired Derek. "Or how, when she was eleven, she stole Paige's jewelry, and pawned it, so she could run away from home? She bought a ticket on the stage to Cumberland."

Stiles snickered. "I'm sorry," he said, politely, and rolled his lips in to keep is amusement contained. "Why did she want to go to Cumberland?"

"She wanted to be a shepherd."

Stiles laughed.

"I was frantic," Derek said, gravely, his mouth barely twitching. "I recovered the gems, tracked her to Gloucester; but there the way divided, some passengers going on to Carlisle, others to Cardiff, and I did not know which to follow. I could think of nothing but all the harm that might befall her - I still sometimes think of all the many ways she might have been hurt, had I chosen wrong, and chased the Wales stage."

"She would be herding sheep with a view of the Solway even now, my lord."

"She will not thank me for telling you of it," said Derek. He laughed, softly, his black eyelashes shielding his eyes. 

Stiles watched him laugh, catching his breath: he would remember this, he thought. The first time I ever saw Lord Derek laugh. Then Derek glanced up, met his eyes, and stole Stiles's breath.

"What of you? Did you hope to be courted by a female alpha, that you might father children?"

Stiles shook his head. He did not have the courage to confess that he had never hoped for any alpha, not until he had first spied Lord Derek.

He stood up and walked a few paces away from the bench. Took a deep breath of the cold winter air into his lungs, striving to keep his head clear. For he was torn. 

At first he had hoped, in the private glowing chambers of his heart, that theirs was a true mate bond. That they belonged to one another, alpha and omega, a bond that excluded all others, a bond that would last forever, and only grow deeper with time. Later, when it had all soured under the force of Lord Derek's scorn, he had told himself that it was only lust. 

But that was not true; his wolf knew it. No matter how Stiles schooled himself to caution, Lord Derek's courtship had only confirmed his wolf's devotion, his wolf's everlasting fidelity. His wolf knew its mate; he belonged to Lord Derek, and always would. 

Even though - somehow - he was not Lord Derek's mate. That had been Paige. Whatever Derek felt for him must be some echo of his severed bond with Paige. He did not understand how that could be. He only knew that Derek, undeniably, wanted him. Derek was driven to court him; Derek, perhaps, needed him. But Derek ... It was possible that Derek did not actually like him. It seemed likely that Derek didn't respect him.

Some strong alphas viewed omegas as fundamentally weak. Desirable, and all the more contemptible for it. It was the omega's right to choose among suitors; some resented this, resented the dance of attraction and courtship, turned their resentment into contempt for omegas.

Derek had, clearly, been both attracted and resentful towards Stiles, at least in the beginning. He had concluded that the misdeeds of others were his misdeeds. Lord Jackson's groping hands were his responsibility. Isaac Lahey's rudeness was provoked by his licentiousness. And he had apologized for that, but what explanation could there be? Perhaps, like many another strong alpha, he thought omegas were fundamentally weak.

How could Stiles marry a man, who thought so? 

How could he not accept his mate, who needed him?

Derek was watching him, as he struggled with himself. He could not know (could he?) what Stiles was thinking, but his eyes were wide with hope. And once he looked into those eyes, Stiles knew what his decision must be.


	17. A Proposal

 

Stiles smiled at him - a wide smile, if not a perfectly genuine one. "Do you know, my lord, that day outside the Yellow Cat? I was peeping at you through the window of the jewelry store."

Lord Derek blinked. "You were?"

"Yes. I was not there to visit the pub - I am not quite so poorly chaperoned as all that. I had smelled you in the town, and was so interested that I tracked you there, and spied upon you."

Lord Derek took a sharp breath, then suddenly surged to his feet, eyes glowing. "It was I, then, that stimulated you that day?" he breathed. 

Startled at this shot right to the heart of the target, Stiles backed away, and Lord Derek paced towards him. Sudden excitement raced through Stiles's blood. Excitement, and lust; the primitive instinct of an omega to flee from a desired alpha - not to escape him, but to inspire him to chase, to provoke him, to incite his drive to hunt and catch and claim.

"Wait."

"No." Derek was a predator, and knew his prey was weakening. "Tell me. Were you affected so, not by that boy, but by me?"

"Would I confess such a thing?" he asked breathlessly, backing away.

"Do not confess it, sir, unless you wish to embolden me," said Derek, following.

"I confess nothing, for you are bold enough."

He continued backing away, and Derek continued to trail him. Stiles was breathing hard; his heart was pattering. He was certain Derek could hear it. His skin felt hot and tight, his body ready for pleasure.

"You wanted me. Admit it."

"How indelicate you are!"

"Oh, I intend to be." 

Stiles tripped over a root, flailed for balance. Derek politely gave him a moment to find his feet and right himself, and then resumed stalking him about the park. "Tell me more, about how you followed my scent through the town, like a child following the whiff of candy."

"My lord," protested Stiles, weakly. His flight had brought his back up against a tree.

"Or, no," said Derek. "I am wrong. Not like a child. You are innocent, but nothing like a child." He grinned his sharp-toothed grin. "But like a dowser, seeking water, with a green branch stiff and erect in his hands, following where it leads -"

"This is improper," said Stiles, as if he were not now as stiff in his trousers as any dowsing rod.

"I am improper." Derek's voice dropped to a whisper, as, pressing forwards, he stepped so close to Stiles that they were only inches apart, his nostrils flaring as he scented Stiles's body. "I am terrible at obeying the conventions of society, so I rarely venture into it. But Mr. Stilinski, I ardently desire you to marry me."

Stiles gulped for breath. The scent of desire flowed off Derek's body, lighting a fever in Stiles that demanded relief. Derek was a breath away - he could touch him, touch his skin, taste him - He must not. They were in public. His chaperone was watching. Stiles ducked and spun, putting the tree between himself and Lord Derek. 

"Do you think..." Stiles's voice trailed off.

He did not want to flirt, did not want to be coy. He wanted to surrender. He wished he weren't so afraid, that if he surrendered, this man would hurt him. 

"My lord - we might, if we were to, if we might wait until January -"

"Why?" 

"December - mid-December - is when I ... usually ... "

Lord Derek came around the tree to face him, and Stiles waited. Derek's eyebrows contracted in a frown: not in anger, Stiles recognized, but confusion. "Wait until after your heat? Hardly. No."

Stiles bit his lip. "But I am very different, during that time," he said. "Not myself at all."

"I do see," said Derek.

"You don't," insisted Stiles. "I'm a different man. You will not like me, then." If Derek did not like or respect omegas, he most assuredly would not like Stiles _then_. He could hardly fail to keep his heats from Derek through their marriage; but if he had a year, to win his heart, before the disagreeable reality of his heat poisoned the air between them ...

"I would hardly fail to do my duty by my omega," Derek said softly. 

"Oh."  _Duty_. Well, much as he would like to shield Lord Derek from the unpleasant reality of his heat, Stiles could hardly argue with duty.

Derek's voice dropped to an almost voiceless growl. He put his hands on the tree on either side of Stiles's head, and Stiles heard his claws dig into the bark. "Marry me," said Derek again. "Unjust I have been, foolish I have been, but never inconstant. I desire you alone; I dream of you, I cannot work or sleep for wanting you - not just your sex, although, my God - " He took an unsteady breath. "But your eyes upon me, your laugh, your regard. To have you happy and safe in my home, to know that you are happy and safe with me, to have your heart, to have your trust - Mr. Stilinski, if my courtship is unwelcome to you, only tell me; but do not pretend to misunderstand. Trust me," he demanded. "Love me, give yourself to me, and I shall work every day of my life to provide your every need, and to be sure you never know a moment of regret. Marry me, Stiles."

"Yes," he whispered. And thought, _Please don't break my heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end - we've got December to get through.


	18. A Hasty Wedding

 

There was no need for elaborate ceremony, not when an omega had accepted an alpha's suit. Neither Stiles nor Lord Derek wished their union to be attended by society. And Lord Derek's desire for no long wait had been clear; the information that Stiles would be going into heat soon only made him more bent upon quickness.

And so, a few brief days later, on the first of December, it was a small gathering at Beacons: Major Stilinski, Melissa and Scott McCall, Mrs. Honoria; Derek's aunt and uncle, Lord Peter and Lady Olivia; Derek's sister Cora; and Isaac Lahey, whom Scott had taken under his wing. There in the winter-brown garden at Beacons, they stood in a circle, and saw Stiles and Derek marry.

Derek and Stiles exchanged vows of mutual fidelity and obedience, and then they claimed one another by marking each other with scent. At one time, in the savage past, there had been actual rubbing and  _biting_ at weddings. Stiles thought he might actually pass out, were he to be bitten by Derek. Now they decorously exchanged wedding-scarves. The scarf Stiles handed Derek was soft green cable-knit wool; it was the one his mother had knitted for his father, and Stiles had slept with it wound around his body, so that it might become thoroughly impregnated with his essence. He received from Derek a scarf of red cashmere, and Derek must have done the same, for the smell of his body rose from it as Stiles wrapped it around his throat. He looked shyly at his husband.The scent in the scarf declared that he was claimed, for all to perceive, though they had scarcely yet touched. Derek rubbed his cheek against the green scarf, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction.

After that, they stayed to eat a celebratory meal with the major, and to drink champagne. And when the sun began to sink in the winter sky, Lord Peter and Lady Olivia took Cora away with them, and Derek told his coachman to ready his carriage. Stiles saw his father cast a flint-and-steel glance at Derek, and he said, "Do stop that. This was your idea." 

"If he does not treat you well, Stiles -"

"He will," said Stiles. 

Derek, overhearing, gave a contented smile; but Major Stilinski knew Stiles better, and heard the false assurance of his tone. He ruffled his son's hair. "Call upon me soon, son."

"Yes, sir."

The space inside the carriage was small and seemed even smaller once Derek closed the door behind them. The seats were velvet, the carriage well-sprung; they set to movement with a swaying lurch, and Derek drew the shades on the small windows, casting the interior of the carriage into dimness. Seated facing each other on the bench seats, they were so close that their knees bumped; their scents mingled.

He watched the scenery go by, thinking about the negative stereotype of the omega: unreasonable, emotionally volatile, sexually insatiable. It was the alpha and the omega's natural instincts - one to provide and protect, the other to be sheltered - turned by resentment into something ugly. He had never felt at all like this version of an omega, until he met Lord Derek; but with him, he was emotional and passionate.

He didn't know how not to be. He must convince Derek that he was not only that; for though he did not think Derek would be deliberately unkind, he could not bear a lifetime of quiet contempt from Derek.

"It will be an hour before we are home," said Derek, his voice soft as velvet in the darkness. He leaned forward, his scent heady with longing, and Stiles unconsciously swayed forward. "Oh," Derek murmured, "will you require that I wait, to touch you?"

"No," whispered Stiles. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Derek's broad shoulders. 

Derek groaned huskily and moved; he came off his seat and dropped to his knees before Stiles, He pressed himself between Stiles's knees, and his big arms wrapped around Stiles's waist, buried his face in Stiles's shoulder. They clung to each other, hard, both trembling. Mated, wed, claimed, yet it was the first time they had been in each other's arms, and Stiles's wolf howled with triumph. 

Derek cupped his face in his gloved hands and kissed him. His kiss was surprisingly soft, his lips persuasive and sweet against Stiles's. Stiles had never kissed, had little idea what to do, but he could not remain still under the gentle brush of Derek's mouth. Moaning softly, Stiles sucked on Derek's lips, licked them. Derek rumbled, and his tongue slid, with lascivious slowness, into Stiles's mouth. Stiles clung to his shoulders, unconsciously pressed his body up against Derek's while the rub of Derek's tongue against his own made his head light with pleasure. He felt Derek's body shudder with reaction. 

Ah, Derek did need him. Derek had been alone a very long time. Now his sister was nearly grown, and he wanted companionship. He had chosen Stiles; if he only remembered that, it wouldn't be so bad.

Then Derek pulled away. He smoothed Stiles's hair, tucked the red scarf around Stiles's throat. "I promised myself I would not debauch you in the carriage," he said, smiling, as he arranged them both decorously on the seats again.

The warmth in his eyes promised that Stiles would be debauched soon enough. Stiles pulled the red scarf over his face, unsure whether his expression conveyed anticipation or trepidation.


	19. The Lust and the Steam, and the Things Unsaid

 

There was no denying his anxiety, that night, when Lord Derek led Stiles by the hand through the darkened Hale House to his bedchamber. 

Stiles had been introduced to the servants, given a tour of the house and grounds, and fed a light supper. He had watched Lord Derek smoke a cigarette after the meal. All the while, the wolf inside him paced and prowled with impatience: _Why does he not take me? Why does he delay?_ And Stiles could not put aside his misgivings, and speak. There seemed to be an imbalance, between himself and his husband, that had made his confidence stumble and falter. Derek had all the assurance of a man who had obtained exactly what he wanted; and Stiles all the insecurity of a man who knew not, exactly, how he had come here, or what he had done.

How should he behave? Ought he to be bold? Or polite and quiet? What would Derek like best? He knew he was thinking too hard, but could not seem to stop.

But Derek's gloveless hand was big and warm in his, as he brought him to a gracious bedchamber: a large room, panelled in wood, with blue-and-green Turkish carpets thick on the floor, cream-and-green bedding on the large canopied bed. A fire crackled in the stone grate.

"Do you like it?" asked Derek. "You can change anything you like."

"I like it." Stiles smiled at him, and bent to remove his shoes. With his bare feet sinking into the soft carpet, he felt undressed and vulnerable.

Lord Derek came into the room and put his hands on his shoulders, and Stiles allowed himself to be drawn into an embrace again. They were of a height, which surprised him - Derek always seemed larger. His arms were large with muscle, his body lean and warm, and Stiles shivered, resting against him. 

Derek slid a hand up Stiles's nape, ruffling the hair there at the base of his skull, then cupped his jaw, lifting his face to kiss. Anxiously, Stiles bit his lip, and Derek hesitated. "Come," he murmured. "Where's the bold boy who smoked my cigarette?"

_You called him a slut,_ thought Stiles, and turned away, burying his face in Derek's shoulder so that he couldn't see it.

Derek smoothed his hands up and down Stiles's back. "I know you are nervous," murmured Derek into his ear. "I have never been with another man, so we are almost equally inexperienced, in this."

He kissed the side of Stiles's neck, his throat - insistent, nuzzling kisses, exploring his jaw with lips and tongue, and Stiles, sighing, relaxed against him. 

Oh, his fears and worries did not matter, when Derek kissed him just there, under his ear, sending darts of pleasure through his body. Suddenly, all seemed simple: he was omega, and this was his alpha; he need only obey his instincts, and all would be well. His instincts whispered, submit; he tipped his head back, exposing the entire line of his throat. Derek sucked kisses down the length, from jaw to collarbone, and his mouth and tongue and teeth, in that vulnerable sensitive spot, made blood rush to his groin in a dizzying rush. He groaned. 

The sound seemed to galvanize Derek, whose grip tightened. "You are so very mine now," he murmured, sliding a hand into Stiles's hair. He clasped a fist in Stiles's hair and tilted his head at the angle he wanted. His lips brushed Stiles's as he murmured, "I cannot wait. Open your eyes and look at me." Stiles was nearly limp in his grasp and longing for more sensation, and Derek caught his jaw, compelled him to open his eyes. "Are you listening? If I do something you don't like, you must stop me."

"Please," whispered Stiles.

Derek kissed him with raw possessiveness, his hand in his hair holding him still while he claimed and dominated him with his tongue. The feel of his hard body, the scent of him, his seeking mouth and gripping hands, devastated Stiles entirely; he could only drown in desire while Derek took what he would.

He was barely aware that he was rubbing up against Derek, riding his thigh, drinking hard from his mouth while gripping his shoulders with his hands. Derek sandwiched him against a wall, flattened his body against his, the thick ridge of his cock pressing into Stiles's belly. "You are so sweet," he breathed. "I want you naked. I want to see all your skin."

"Yes, my lord" whispered Stiles, eyes closed, mindlessly pulsing his hips, trying to align his sex with Derek's and stimulate himself against it. The texture of wool and cotton was scratchy against his sensitized skin, the scent of Derek hot in his nostrils. Whatever you say, my lord, just don't stop. He lifted one knee to wrap his leg around Derek's thigh, shifted his hips, and Derek settled more firmly between his legs; separated by layers of fabric, his cock was thick and ready against Stiles's.

"Mine," groaned Derek, and kissed him again. Stiles lost track of time, lost track of everything but the feel and smell and taste of Derek. His hands in Derek's hair, Derek's tongue rubbing against his, his beard on his cheek and chin, his body warm and alive. Derek's hands cupped his buttocks, lifted him, and he rocked his hips, riding Derek's straining erection. The feeling was so powerful, so close to what he needed, that he nearly went boneless in Derek's grasp, eyes closed and neck arched, little uncontrolled cries of need coming from his throat.

"Wait," rasped Derek. "Wait but a moment. Let me go."

Stiles protested, and Derek pulled away. "Take off your clothes," he said breathlessly, pulling his own shirt off over his head. Stiles gazed at him thunderstruck - he was magnificent, lean and graceful and powerful. Black hair scrolled over his chest, his forearms and thighs, whorled around his nipples and made a trail down his abdomen. The front of his trousers was intriguingly distended, and Stiles made an appreciative sound. Derek laughed, hands dropping to his buttons. "Take. Off. Your. Clothes."

Stiles hastened to obey, then sat on the edge of bed and watched as Derek stripped off his trousers with a shimmying motion of his hips, which made his erect cock - thicker and darker and more beautiful than Stiles's - bounce happily from side to side. 

"You're smiling," said Derek as he joined him on the bed, pushed him onto his back and crawled over him, nudging his thighs apart. 

_Your penis is cute._ Stiles did not say it. Maybe an alpha wouldn't like it, if an omega said his penis was cute. Maybe he would think he was being mocked. He stayed silent, and Derek began to explore him, propped on one arm while the other hand roamed possessively over Stiles's body, exploring his collarbones, the points of his shoulders, the terrain of his chest. "You're nervous again," he murmured, his lips brushing his collar bones. "I'm going to cure you of nervousness this night, whatever I do."

He kissed him, and with gentle fingertips he circled and squeezed Stiles's nipple, pulling it taut. The sensation was intense, sending jolts of delight straight to his cock, and he moaned against Derek's mouth. When Derek patiently moved to give the other nipple the same treatment, Stiles whined, writhed, clutched Derek's smooth hips, trying to pull him down on top of him.

"Stop wiggling," growled Derek. "I would take my time and make this perfect for you, but you are distracting me from my purpose."

He could not bring himself to say what he must: _I am so hard, I am so needy, you must take me now, and pleasure me, and give me relief, because I cannot wait._ Instead he just arched and clung and moaned, hoping that his body would communicate what his lips could not say.

Derek's hands traced his hipbones and thighs and the pits of his arms. A strong fingertip found the space between Stiles's sac and hole, and pressed there, and Stiles nearly screamed.

"Hmm," purred Derek, circling his fingertip. "Right here."

"Oh," panted Stiles. "Oh, yes." Derek slid down the bed, nuzzled his groin. " _Oh_."

He watched as Derek, with the pointed tip of his tongue, licked a narrow stripe up his cock, from the loose-skinned base to the spot under the head, the spot where his foreskin connected. Derek pressed his tongue there, and, at the same moment, cupped his sac and stroked that hot finger along Stiles's taint. 

Stiles's head fell back, his eyes closed, his mouth open. He felt Derek's mouth enclose the head of his cock - so hot, so tight - felt that finger nudge and press behind his balls, insistent. A sob of pleasure came out of him; entirely against his will, his pelvis tilted forward and legs spread to give better access to Derek's fingers, to his tongue, oh God, his tongue. Derek pulled the entire length of Stiles's cock in the hot tightness of his mouth, his throat; and then he pulled back, slowly, his supple tongue swirling around the sensitive spot under the head of his cock.

Derek raised his head and looked up at Stiles, his lips red and wet, while Stiles's still-rigid cock bumped needily against his chin and jaw. "Am I doing it right?"

Whatever noise Stiles emitted must have been in the affirmative, for Derek's mouth engulfed his cock again, as at the same time he slid a finger right into his hole in one long, delicious move. It was exquisite, better than anything he'd ever felt, and he could do nothing but squeeze his eyes shut; Derek bobbed his head, taking him in again and again, relentlessly pressing with that finger. Stiles came in a rush of tingling sweetness, far better and sweeter than anything he'd ever achieved on his own.

Derek crawled up Stiles's body to kiss him, the smell and taste of his desire, and Stiles's own pleasure, hot on his lips. "Good," he murmured. "That was very nice." He stroked Stiles's hair and kissed him, soothingly, while Stiles slowly regained the ability to breathe, murmuring compliments: "You're so sensitive. You're so loud." 

"I'm sorry."

A laugh trembled in Derek's chest. "Don't be." He opened his eyes, looking up at Derek, who smiled at him. "I like it when you scream."

"I wouldn't call it a scr- aaaaah -" Derek slid two fingers inside him again. He was slick and dripping, and Derek met no resistance as he explored. "Nggggh," went Stiles, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head, as Derek found the sensitive place inside him and stimulated it with his fingertips.

"Too much?" murmured Derek, relenting. "Don't let me push you too hard. You can tell me to stop."

"Please don't stop," whispered Stiles, hiding his face in Derek's shoulder.

"I'm going to do everything to you," promised Derek, in a hot whisper. He pressed upon him kiss after kiss of hot desire, stroked all the textures of his body, inside and out. And when, before long, Stiles was ready again, tingling and hard and aching for pleasure, Derek turned him on his belly and rubbed his hard cock up and down the crease of his ass, gliding through the slickness Stiles's omega nature had created there. "Did you do this to yourself?" he murmured in Stiles's ear, the blunt head of his cock nudging at Stiles's hole. "With the gift I sent you?"

"I - yes -"

"Oh, I hoped you would." Derek entered him, with just the tip of his cock, its fatness stretching him open, making Stiles's mouth fall open, his eyes roll up into his head. But Derek did not penetrate deeply, he just rotated his hips, teasing. "Did you like it? Did you imagine me inside you like this?"

"Yes," panted Stiles. "Yes."

"So wet for me." Derek slid all the way in, deep, and Stiles emitted a shattered groan. "Did you come, with my gift inside you?" he demanded, beginning to roll his hips. "Did it make you wet like this? Did you fuck it, like this, until you came?"

And with each thrust, Stiles gasped "Yes, yes, yes."

"You are mine." Derek's voice was no longer a velvety purr, but a primal snarl. He slid his hands up Stiles's arms and laced his fingers in his, and together they gripped the sheets for purchase as he began plunge into Stiles with hard wild strokes, mindless with the drive for pleasure and domination. Derek roared, going still except to grind his hips against Stiles, to squeeze his hands as his body convulsed with climax. It was the desperation in his voice, as much as the pulsing of his body, that made Stiles's body clench with orgasm once again, so fast and hard that he nearly blacked out from pleasure. 

They lay together in a sweating tangle, breaths mingling, and, in the stunned aftermath of sex, Stiles thought, _I love you, oh I love you, how I love you._

Then Derek disengaged and rolled away from him without a word. He rolled out of bed and padded, naked, across the room. Stiles watched with appreciation as he bent gracefully, found his cigarette case and lighter from his discarded clothes, opened the French door and went out onto the balcony. His husband leaned on the railing and smoked a cigarette, bare skin lit only by starlight. 

He wanted to get up and go join him out there; to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and share the cigarette. Like a friend, a companion. 

But he was not that, so he curled up alone in the ruined sheets, and closed his eyes to sleep again.


	20. Heat in December

 

 

 

One week later, as he ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, Lord Derek studied the way his new husband was picking restlessly at his food.

Lord Derek was very, very happy in his new marriage. But it was beginning to dawn upon him that his husband did not feel the same way.

Stiles was delightful. He was brilliant and talented and sweet-natured. They had spent long hours talking, about music and books, about politics and local society gossip. Stiles was charming,  his thoughts and ideas often unexpected, his enthusiasms infectious. And their nights were extraordinary: their lovemaking passionate, sometimes slow and intense, sometimes wild and urgent. Stiles was so responsive, so innocently erotic, so willing to give Derek whatever he wanted -

That might be the problem, Derek thought, sipping his coffee. Stiles was agreeable in everything. Derek had only to suggest a topic, or an outing, or a sexual position, and Stiles was pleased to acquiesce. At no time did he give any sign that any of Derek's suggestions caused him distress. Derek would have known, would have smelled it, if he were in true distress. On the contrary, his melting submission in bed seemed to give them both great satisfaction. Derek shifted a little in his chair, arousal stirring his blood. He could not believe he'd gone so many years, so content to be without regular intercourse, when now, with Stiles in his house, he could scarcely make it through the day without stalking his husband and demanding gratification.

But he wouldn't mind at all, if Stiles occasionally made demands of his own. Derek's satisfaction came, not just from his own sexual fulfillment, but from giving his mate everything he needed - whatever, whenever he needed it. But Stiles, who seemed pleased to give himself wholly into Derek's hands, to do with what he would, never initiated or suggested anything. 

Something was missing. Stiles was polite and willing to please, but he was not ... comfortable. Derek remembered the way he had been, that day in the music-room at Beacons, when he had spoken to Derek with a kind of tart, spontaneous directness: _I am in no particular mood to be scolded again._ That day, Stiles had been comfortable in his home, in his skin; he had showed no interest in, or expectation of, pleasing Derek. But he had been pleasing. That natural Stiles, quick-talking, a little vinegary - he was nowhere to be seen. 

Fat with his own contentment, it had taken Derek far too long to notice that Stiles was hiding.

Stiles wasn't eating terribly well. He played his piano, but he did not compose. And although Derek was not a musician, he did love music, and he could detect a certain brittleness in Stiles's playing. Was Stiles worried about something? Was he afraid of something? He wished Cora were here, and not still staying with her aunt and uncle. He missed her; and she could always puncture Derek's self-regard, make him see a perspective other than his own. Would she understand Stiles better?

If Stiles was in difficulties, why would he not share them with Derek, that they might straighten them together? 

"What would you like to do today?" he asked, setting down his fork.

Stiles smiled. "Did you not wish to go to Lord Abernathy's today, to see about buying one of his horses?"

"We can do that any time," said Derek. "What would _you_ like to do?"

"I am fond of Lord Abernathy," said Stiles. "Let us go see his horses."

"Stiles." Derek reached across the table to take his hand. "Suppose I had not suggested going to Lord Abernathy's - what would you like to do?"

Stiles's brow puckered in an expression of confusion. "But it sounds like a pleasant outing," he said. "I am content to go."

Sighing, he withdrew his hand. He brushed his coffee cup with his elbow and knocked it off the table; he caught it before it could shatter on the floor, and coffee sloshed over his fingers. Derek set down the cup and wiped his hand with his napkin: "Look what you made me do," he said, teasing. "My thoughts are so full of you, I can scarcely breakfast without causing a mishap."

For an instant, Derek saw a flash of anger on Stiles's face, tightening his lips and sparking his brown eyes. And then Stiles lowered his gaze, and it was gone.

"Is all well with you, Stiles?"

"Of course," said Stiles, folding his napkin and standing up. "I shall go dress."

It was cold, and threatening snow, so they took the carriage to Lord Abernathy's. While Derek was examining the bloodstock, he watched Stiles and the old man from a distance. Stiles had known Lord Abernathy from childhood. Lord Abernathy was a rogue who enjoyed flustering people; Stiles was evidently flustered, his cheeks red, but he was laughing, too, and talking with animation. 

When he was alone with Derek, on the carriage ride back home, the animation was gone; Stiles lapsed back into his accustomed polite silence.

There was a scent in the carriage like pine and cedar, like crushed berries, like amber and musk and sex. Derek met Stiles's eyes, and Stiles smiled; he could tell that Stiles was sexually aroused; that he could touch him, and would be welcomed. Lord Abernathy was a near neighbor, and the carriage ride would not be long; but Stiles's smile held an invitation, and they could accomplish much, in that cramped space, in that little time.

But Derek would not be distracted by lovemaking. Their bodies were well able to find accord and mutual delight. It was when they were _not_ so engaged that they could not communicate. Stiles wore a mask, when he was not making love. Oh, Stiles was not happy, and he hadn't known. What if Stiles was hurting, and somehow he was the cause of it? Why else would Stiles not told him - why would Stiles not turn to him for comfort - unless he were the cause? 

The realization was a strange, unexpected agony in the center of Derek's chest. It was the alpha's instinctive need to provide and protect, and this he had failed to do. What had he done wrong? What had he missed? What did he lack, that Stiles needed? 

"Stiles," he said, "I know you are not very happy. Please, won't you tell me what troubles you?"

"Why, whatever makes you say that?" said Stiles. "I am untroubled."

"I hesitate to contradict you, but I know you are troubled. I have never been so content; every aspect of our marriage brings me felicity; but I believe that it is not so for you. I would - I would do anything for you, Stiles; if I but knew what it was you needed."

Stiles did not reply. The intoxicating scent that rose from his body - the scent of cold air through winter woods, the scent of the chase, the scent of voluptuous pleasure - grew stronger, continued to fill Derek's nostrils, confusing and exciting him. They rode on, until they came to the turning, where they must depart the main road and drive up to Hale House.

Then Stiles said, "Would you tell the coachman to drive on, and continue down the road, to Beacons? Would you take me home?"

The request froze Derek's breath in his lungs. Because it told him that Hale House was not Stiles's home. Because he wanted to leave.

"No, I thought not," said Stiles, coolly, and turned his gaze out the window.

"Stiles," whispered Derek. "Why?" He leaned towards Stiles, reaching for his hands, but Stiles evaded him. "Only tell me why? Why marry me, only to leave me?"

"For my heat," clarified Stiles, with evident exasperation. "I would like to spend my heat at home, alone. But you would never agree to that, of course."

He certainly did not _wish_ to agree to it. That Stiles would prefer pass through that season alone, rather than with Derek? He must have bungled catastrophically. But he would, if Stiles needed it. He would, to keep Stiles from speaking to him this way, with this knowing distaste - as though he had expected Derek to disappoint him, and was not surprised.

Derek caught Stiles's face in his hands and turned it towards the light of the window, and saw the violet rays radiating from his pupils through his clear brown irises. He filled his lungs with that pine-musk scent. Huskily he said, "I would, husband, believe me or not; but we don't have time. Unless you wish to spend your heat in a hedgerow halfway between, we must get home _now_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There may be delays in posting further, partly because excitable meteorologists are warning of apocalyptic storms, so I might lose power; and partly because I've been posting faster than I've been rewriting, and I need to finish chapters before I can put them up.
> 
> 2\. Some of you have been hoping for more Cora in this fic. I'm sorry to tell you that I currently have no plans for her.
> 
> 3\. I love all of your comments; I'm so gratified that you take the time to leave them. You people are awesome.


	21. The Stranger in the Bedroom

 

Stiles pushed him him away, and did not disguise his anger. "There was time aplenty when I asked you once before, do you recall? I asked if we might delay the wedding until after. You refused me. You did not consider my feelings, but refused me without a moment of reflection. So you must abandon your claim that you would do anything for me, my lord; the next three days will prove you wrong, for I would have passed them without you."

Derek was entirely flummoxed. The scent Stiles's body was emitting was fogging his brain, preventing him from thinking clearly; his bitter words stung like a lash. "You don't trust me?" he managed to ask.

"You won't like him," Stiles promised, with both anger and a kind of hopeless wretchedness. "The one I turn into. I told you, I am a different man, during my heats. You'll hate what he wants to do, and even when it's over, you'll look at me, and remember him. You'll dislike me even more than you do now."

"I do not dislike you," said Derek, and Stiles's eyes widened. With surprise? Disbelief? "Stiles, please," said Derek again. "Please - trust me. Nothing that happens will make me esteem you less." 

The carriage swayed to a stop. Stiles looked like he would argue, but the violet was fizzing in his eyes, and there was no time. Without a word, without waiting for the coachman, Stiles opened the door and jumped down. Derek called to his retreating back, "I will join you soon; lock yourself in your room."

Stiles fled upstairs, and Derek summoned the servants to the main hall. He quickly set into motion the arrangements that he had made: the groom and his assistant would remain, in the groundskeeper's cottage, to care for the horses. They would not come into the house. The housekeeper, Mrs. Simmons, a sensible and unexcitable beta, would also remain. She would put food and water outside the bedroom door, and otherwise would remain in the servants' wing, unless summoned by the bell, in case of emergency. The rest all would go; they could stay with family or friends or, lacking either, take rooms at the inn in town, at Derek's expense. They would lose no pay, and they cheered, happy to be given a holiday; happy, too, for their master.

"Congratulations, sir," said Mrs. Simmons, as he pocketed the key to Stiles's bedroom and went up the stairs. 

In his own chamber, he stripped. His wolf was urging him to _hurry_ , his mate _needed him_ \- but he took the time to drink a glass of water, to wash himself thoroughly, to prep himself with oil. He'd only ever done this with a woman, didn't know if Stiles would want to penetrate him - he never had before - but he could not create slick for himself, so he patiently rubbed oil into himself, tried to massage his muscles to looseness, biting his lips against the stretch and burn of his fingers, ignoring his now fully-engorged cock. 

All the while he scented the air, and listened for Stiles through the connecting door. Was he still angry? Was he frightened? He could detect nothing.

He pulled on a pair of trousers - uncomfortably tight, since his cock was alert and quivering with readiness - and a dressing-gown, unlocked the connecting door, and went into Stiles's room. 

He locked the door behind him. No one would ever intrude - but Derek knew he would be restless, if any could.

Stiles stood, leaning against the far wall. One of Derek's cigarettes between his lips, and he stared at Derek through the veil of smoke, his eyes gleaming. He had unbuttoned his shirt, and as Derek watched, he ran a hand sinuously down his chest and stomach, lingering to finger his navel. His trousers were unbuttoned, the head of his cock pushing up, pink and shining, under the waistband. The glowing violet of his eyes showed that he had fully succumbed to his heat. 

Derek could see immediately what Stiles had meant, when he'd said he turned into another man; nothing of Stiles's innocent sensuality remained in those eyes.This creature was made of appetite, and Derek's wolf trembled.

An alpha in the presence of an omega in heat. His wolf-nature stretched and filled him, crowding out his logical mind. He knew that he would become a creature of instinct, and his instinct all had one purpose: to serve his omega, to give him anything he needed.

"Stiles," breathed Derek.

"Not Stiles," said the omega, putting the cigarette in an ashtray. "Stiles is a sweet little kitten. You like him?"

"Yes."

He mimicked his own voice, breathless with arousal - "Oh yes, milord. Oh please, milord. Oh, _thank you_ , milord." Derek failed to suppress a grin, and the man before him rolled his eyes. "Yes, you like that."

"I do," admitted Derek.

"You won't like me." He pushed off the wall, walked towards Derek, where he still stood near the door that adjoined their rooms. He even moved differently from Stiles, with a kind of languid grace. He sinuously pulled off his shirt, stripped out of his trousers; his cock was standing rigid, and the smell of his arousal filled the room. "I am not sweet. Hmmm." His eyes traveled appreciatively over Derek's body. "I do give him credit for good taste. I'm looking forward to playing with you. Thank you for not letting him lock me in here alone." 

Derek's mind was fogging with the scent of omega. It was sending him into a kind of trance, blank-minded, waiting. He felt curiously light and empty, and his body was achingly aroused, his hard cock bent sideways, trapped by his tight trousers.

"That looks uncomfortable," his husband said, smiling, eyes on his crotch.

"It is," whispered Derek.

"I don't care," said the omega. "I'm going to take what I need, milord. Your mouth, your arse, that big prick of yours. And you will let me use you, until I am done; or leave, and I will take care of myself."

"I am your alpha," said Derek, breathlessly. "I am here to give you what you need."

"Kneel," said Heat!Stiles.

Derek dropped to his knees.


	22. Inanna Aspect

 

Heat!Stiles grasped Derek's hair, hard, his cock in Derek's face. Derek closed his eyes. "I'm going to fuck your mouth, and I don't care if you like it."

Yes. His wolf exulted at a direct order from the omega; he obeyed. Heat!Stiles thrust his cock slowly into his mouth, lodged himself in the back of Derek's throat, stopping Derek's breath. Derek relaxed his throat muscles, so that he wouldn't choke; his nose pressed into Heat!Stiles's pubic hair; his hands grasped Heat!Stiles's lean naked hips, not to pull him back, or to control his movements; just to steady himself. Heat!Stiles tightened his fingers in his hair and began to rock his hips. He pleasured himself in Derek's mouth with short hard strokes, and Derek permitted it, passively, and opened his eyes to watched: his face transfigured with ecstasy, head falling back, too lost in pleasure to give Derek a chance to breathe. His body tensed like a tightened spring, and he came, his cock pulsing against Derek's tongue, his fingers spasming painfully in Derek's hair.

When he pulled out Heat!Stiles was smiling. He went to the bed and flopped onto it. "Ah, that's a little better," he purred, cupping his cock, still hard. "Now I can think for a moment."

Derek, becalmed in an alpha trance-state, swallowed and coughed. He remained kneeling. 

Heat!Stiles propped himself up on his elbows, splayed unashamedly naked. "You needn't stay," he said. "That was good, but I don't actually want to ruin Stiles's life; I've done this alone before."

"I shall stay, of course," said Derek.

Heat!Stiles raised an eyebrow. "So? If you stay, I will use you hard."

"Yes," said Derek. 

"Well, if you are willing, God knows I am not done. Take off your clothes and come here."

Derek stood, stripped, crawled onto the bed. Heat!Stiles rolled to his knees and shoved Derek down on his belly, hard, pushing his thighs apart and kneeling between them. He grasped Derek's cheeks and spread it, pressed a thumb against Derek's hole. "You've slicked yourself up for me," murmured Heat!Stiles. "And made my cock all wet. Nice." A little bubble of elated laughter inflated in Derek's chest. He was gratified that he'd anticipated his wishes. 

The omega gripped Derek's hips and slid into Derek's arse, very slowly, steadily stretching him open, and Derek shuddered and gasped. If he thrust it would hurt, and Derek breathed deeply, waiting for the pain; but in spite of his indifferent words, Heat!Stiles was gentle, grinding their bodies together, pressing and rubbing, slow and rhythmic, and they both moaned with pleasure. "Yes," whispered Heat!Stiles, "yes." Then Heat!Stiles cried out, body jerking in a long, sustained orgasm, flooding Derek with hot liquid. Finally he collapsed across Derek's back.

They lay still for a long moment, Stiles's still-hard cock lodged inside of him, his semen running out of him, and it felt so good. Derek was so aroused he could barely remain still; he wanted to arch his body, stretch, to fuck himself on his omega's cock - but he lay unmoving beneath the omega, waiting. After a moment Heat!Stiles began to move again, hands on Derek's shoulders now, rotating his hips, grinding inside him. Derek's channel was full of slick and semen, Heat!Stiles's way lubricated with his own juices, and it transformed a tight penetration into something voluptuously pleasurable. "Just like that, oh," whispered Heat!Stiles roughly. He began to pump his hips, and Derek widened his legs, moving with him, seeking more of the delicious sensation. "I need more," gritted Heat!Stiles, his thrusts fast and ragged with desperation. Derek couldn't help himself; he writhed and arched under Stiles. His omega made no effort to pleasure him, focused only on the propulsive need that drove him, but it didn't matter; Derek couldn't stop himself, and the next time Stiles came, screaming hoarsely, Derek squeezed his eyes shut and abandoned himself, pleasure roaring through him.

He was panting, aglow with delight, face-down in the cooling pool of his own spend, when Heat!Stiles said, "Oh, you wanton. Damn, you. I wanted to ride that cock, and now, look, it's gone soft." 

"I'm sorry," panted Derek.

Heat!Stiles laughed at him. "Your sorrow is of no use to me," he said. "I need a man, right now, and look at you, you're no good to me." Derek's wolf whimpered. Heat!Stiles rolled onto his stomach, legs splayed. "Use your tongue on me, then," he said. "Or your hands. Hurry. Now. _Now_. Oh God, it's happening again." 

And so it continued, for three days. His omega was imperious and demanding. Compelled to use him, never softening, the urge to climax again and again spurring him. Derek, his own personality sunk deep in the needs of alpha and omega, heat and rut, served him however he could - fucking him, sucking him, probing him with fingers and toys. They fell into a pattern - Heat!Stiles drove hard for four, or five, or six climaxes, and then would fall into a stunned sleep for an hour or two.

In those moments of rest, Derek surrendered utterly to his instinct to care for him. He washed him, combed his hair, stroked and massaged his muscles. He found extra blankets and tucked them around his sleeping body like a warm nest - for he'd forgotten to lay in a supply of coal; the fire died the second day, and the room was cold. And he kissed him - tender kisses on his cheekbones, his eyebrows, the bridge of his upturned nose, the tender place at his temple, his lips, his eyelids.

When the omega wakened, Derek gave him water, and urged him to eat. Sometimes they talked, a little, before the compulsion overcame them again. 

"Why didn't you want me here for this?" Derek whispered, holding a drowsy Heat!Stiles in his arms.

"I did. He did not. Hmmm, poor Stiles," murmured Heat!Stiles. "He will be mortified."

"But why?"

"Well, you do not like omegas much. He has been trying so hard to be not too omega, you know, so that you will like him; but that's all spoiled now."

Thunderstruck, Derek asked, "Why do you think so? I begged for your hand; why would I have done so, had I not wanted you?"

Heat!Stiles opened his violet eyes and gazed directly into Derek's own - something Stiles rarely did. "You wanted him," he said simply. "But it was only a short while before, that you told him he was an improper creature, and an unsuitable influence upon your sister."

"I apologized!"

Heat!Stiles's shrug was eloquent with indifference. He moved, gracefully straddled Derek's body, the scent of desire flowing from him. "He would not have accepted you, you know, but I was determined to have you."

They shifted together, aligning their bodies; Derek put his hands on Heat!Stiles's ribcage and positioned him until the omega was on his knees, hovering over his lap, spine curved so as to present his hole to Derek's cock. Derek whispered, "A little further back, love - yes, there -" The omega sank down as Derek thrust up, and then they were moving together, liquid and luscious, their bodies fitting together perfectly. "Oh." Derek kept his hands on his sides and just watched him move, the sinuous grace with which he arched his back, cycled his hips, the lack of self-consciousness with which he took what he needed.

Derek knew he shouldn't come again; they were just at the beginning of this bout, his omega would need him to last. But the way Heat!Stiles was riding him, those long smooth strokes, the slickness, the heat. Derek didn't know when he closed his eyes, when he fell helplessly into pleasure, when his hands tightened and his hips and spine and balls seized control, when he started chanting _I love you, I love you._ Heat!Stiles increased the pace, increased the pressure. Derek felt the spasms of his lover's climax, and succumbed utterly, drowning in ecstasy.

"Damn it, milord," Heat!Stiles panted testily. "I don't need your love, I need your stand."

"Sorry," breathed Derek. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

By the middle of the third day, they were both utterly exhausted. Heat!Stiles had entered a cycle of near-catatonic sleep and incessant orgasm, his body so sensitized that he couldn't bear any touch except Derek's fingers inside him, pressing against his prostate, while he raggedly chanted, "Yes. Again. Oh, God, yes. _Again_."

Finally it was over. Stiles fell asleep and stayed asleep, and the pine-amber-musk scent of his heat dissipated, replaced by his normal essence. 

Derek, bruised and sore, still deep in the heat-trance, rang the bell for the housekeeper. He asked for a hearty breakfast no sooner than eight hours hence, acquired coal and hot water, built up the fire. He bathed the unconscious Stiles tenderly, kissing his wet hair, his slender hands. He dressed him in pajamas, carried him into his own bedroom, tucked him into clean cool sheets. Then he washed himself, smiling a little as he rinsed spend out of his hair.

Then, utterly exhausted, he crawled into the warm den of blankets beside his mate, to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

 Stiles sat at the piano the next morning, a cup of tea cooling at his side, practicing the Goldberg Variations.

He respected but did not love Goldberg. He found Bach old-fashioned and mannered, overly-structured; his music carried with it a grandfatherly whiff of periwig and powder. But it was a difficult piece to play; it required unwavering conscious attention. He hoped his confusions and perplexities would sort themselves, while he focused on the complex architecture of the music.

He had awakened in Derek's arms this morning, well-rested, sensually satisfied, hungry, only a little achy. He'd lain there, surrounded by Derek's sleep-heavy limbs, warm and comfortable, for a long time. He always did feel good after his heats, even the hard, lonely ones, and this had not been that. His alpha had taken care of him, as he promised. 

Derek must have been truly exhausted. He always awakened the moment Stiles did; but this morning he had slept on, even when Stiles got up.

Though his physical form was suffused with well-being, his heart was knotted with questions that he knew not how to disentangle. So he focused on the third variation, the Canone all'Unisono, playing first the bass line with one hand, then the melody with the other. Finally, he played them together, the two lines diverging, seeming independent of each other, yet mutually supporting, chiming together. He swayed over the keyboard, his body loose, his left hand dancing through the bass line, his right tripping lightly over the melody. 

Was Stiles wrong to have used Derek, the way he had? Was not Derek wrong to stay with him, when he had asked him to go? Was he wrong to be, nevertheless, glad that he had stayed? Should he be glad, or ashamed, that he had handled Derek with such callousness? Angry, that Derek had allowed himself to be so used? (Stiles flinched at the memory.) Was he wrong to be simultaneously mortified, and ashamed, and relieved, that Derek had now seen that cruel, powerful, demanding aspect of him? The idea that he'd ever be able to hide it had always been illogical, the product of insecurity. And now, Derek could never unsee it. Would Derek like him less? Wasn't it Derek's own fault, if he did? 

His fingers stumbled in their dance, fell out of time and staggered to a halt. He huffed with frustration, rotated his wrists to relax his hands. Music was not leading him out of his confusion; instead, his confusion was marring his music. 

He began again.

Derek's eyes had gone as red as cherries during Stiles's heat. His scent had changed to something soothing, grounding; no less exciting, but Derek had helped him to be calm, even in the his moments of most intense need. He had not expected Derek's care. He had loved, but not expected, the strange intimacy of it, the way he had demanded, and Derek had yielded all. A memory came back to him, dreamlike: Derek, running a cool damp flannel over Stiles's overstimulated body, quieting him. His lips following the flannel with feathery kisses. 

Derek had said _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , in time to the surge and pull of their bodies together. 

That was a hard memory to bear.

 His fingers stilled on the keys as he remembered. He heard a sound and looked up, saw that Derek was lying on the sofa, listening to him play. 

 "Good morning," said Derek.

 "Oh. Hello." He met Derek's eyes, and was struck by their beauty, just as strongly as on the first day they'd met. Green-hazel, fringed with black lashes, meeting his own fearlessly. And Stiles found that the music had led him to a conclusion after all. 

 They must speak. _He_ must speak, as freely and with as much truth as his fragile courage would allow.

 He might as well begin with the hardest truth; perhaps it would get easier from there.

 He looked down at the keyboard, so that he need not see Derek's face, and said, "I love you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, the comments have gotten a little contentious. I thought I had supplied enough foreshadowing so that the twist wouldn't be quite so jarring for people - clearly I didn't succeed. 
> 
> We are almost at the end. I hope I can wrap this up in a way that is satisfying. Thank you for all your comments.
> 
> Stiles is playing [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLMm_3YTQEI).


	24. Two lies and two truths

Stiles's voice felt scratchy; he wondered when he had last used it. He cleared his throat and, eyes on the keyboard, and said, "I think I have been in love with you since I first saw you, and my feelings have not abated. I believed then that you were my mate, and I ... still do."

"Stiles," said Derek, his voice low. He sat up, made as if to rise and approach. Stiles held up a hand.

"No, let me go on." His face was hot; his voice had cracked, on those last words, and the black-and-white keys had blurred in his vision. "For I think loving you solves nothing - only, I ought to say it; we ought to be truthful. As a ... a foundation, to everything else. So let me finish, my lord, please."

"Go on, then," Derek said.

Very well. He took a steadying breath. "I am very sorry, and very ashamed, that he - that I - treated you unkindly. I said _he_. I said I was another man in my heat, but that was a lie. Not a deliberate lie to you, but ... but a kind of lie I tell myself, because it is easier ... Because I cannot understand myself, unless I explain it to myself that way. But _he_ , he was me, of course, always me; but in the heat, my priorities, my necessities, all are shifted, and I am so single minded - "

"I understand," said Derek.

"Please, let me finish - He is always with me - I am always him - but I do not usually give voice to his necessities. But he is me, and I expect you dislike him, and so, me. And however much I may wish you did not feel that way, I cannot pretend." Derek whispered his name again, but he pressed on with his confession. "I said things that were not true, in my heat - I said I didn't care about you, and so many other things - those were not lies, exactly, my lord, because they were true in that circumstance; they were true to me, given my necessities, in that moment; but they are not true now. And so, you - you were a little different from your usual self, too - perhaps you also said and did things that were true to you at that time, in that moment; but are not true now. And ... I would understand, if that were so, my lord." He swallowed. "I just think we must be clear. My lord."

Derek hesitated. "Are you finished?"

"Yes. For now."

Derek moved. He came off the couch, dropped to his knees beside the piano stool, not touching Stiles but beside him, close enough so that Stiles could feel his warmth. The pose was so uncharacteristic of Derek; Derek would never kneel thus, his head down. Except he had, during Stiles's heat. Stiles watched, silently, as Derek rubbed a hand over his face, pressed his fingertips to his eyelids, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh Stiles," he sighed. "Where to begin? You think me such an idiot."

"No," protested Stiles.

"I don't see why not," said Derek. "I have been the most idiotic of idiots. I wonder why you are so humble, when your instincts have been true all along, and I such a fool."

This was the last thing Stiles expected.

Derek went on, "When I saw bad behavior, I pretended I believed it was yours, and told you so. I say _pretended_ ," he added. "It was a lie I told myself, because I was afraid. Your father would have been well within his rights to shoot me, and you within yours, to reject my suit out of hand. You have been far braver than I, every day since we met. Whatever reputation alphas have for courage - I have done no credit to it."

Stiles dared to peek at him from beneath his lashes. His husband's cheeks were flushed a little, his dark brows drawn down. Stiles said, "I don't understand, my lord. What had you ever to fear from _me_?"

"Stiles - Mr. Stilinski - Do you remember Mrs. Waterton's picnic?" Stiles nodded, and he went on, "I had no thought of ever marrying again, until I saw you dancing there, on the lawn. I watched for a while, you know, before I spoke. I watched as you danced with this one and that one. I was captivated. I could not tear myself away. I wanted to scoop you up on my horse and ride away with you. And then that idiot Lord Jackson Whittemore groped you, and you smiled at him, and I was ... angry. Jealous." He ducked his head. "Quite irrationally angry and jealous."

"I smiled at him, my lord, but I did not _smile_ at him. I threatened to maim him."

"Believe me, I understand better now. But. I wonder if you can understand? I had not touched another, save for family, for nearly twenty years, and then I was ... suddenly overcome. Overwhelmed. Can you imagine how the suddenness of it alarmed me?"

Stiles remained silent. But he remembered how staggered he had been, the first time he met Derek's eyes. How those eyes had pierced him through with mingled shyness and longing, how he had been almost unable to speak. He had never had the smallest idea that Derek felt the same way.

"I was astonished by my own feelings - their suddenness, as I said, and also their strength - and I was brought to mind the strength and suddenness of my grief, when Paige died, and my son - I felt I could not bear it again, and it was easier - wrong, foolish, but easier - to say to myself, look here, _everyone_ is attracted to this omega, it is not just me. Easier than to admit, even to myself, that I was yours."

"My lord," said Stiles, unsteadily. "You were Paige's."

"Paige's?" Derek scoffed. "I was sixteen when we married," he said. "Her family planned a match for her that she did not like, and I wanted to save her. We married against our parents' wishes, and it was a ruinous decision. She was lovely and good, but I was not hers, nor she mine. We did not attract each other, except in her heat; and then she died of my babe, in appalling pain. It was such a waste, and all my fault."

"Oh," said Stiles, humbly. "No, surely not your fault, my lord."

"No?" He sighed, bleakly. "Well, I will not quarrel the point today. To me, it seemed only right that I should be always alone. I was even content. But you - After one look, I was your mate; but I was frightened. So I allowed every glimpse of you to discourage the idea. The second time I saw you, outside of the Yellow Cat; the boy you were with was disrespectful, but you - forgive me - seemed to find him appealing. See, I said to myself, I could never accept such a man - but at the same time I wanted to kill that boy. It was quite unpardonable of me, to be jealous, of whatever you felt in that moment. But I wanted to tear his head off."

Mutely, Stiles shook his head.

"I chased this idea like a rabbit, that you were attractive to, attracted by, all alphas, because even though it was loathsome to me, it was easier than to imagine myself loving ... And then, when we spoke, and you seemed to like me, I told myself myself I was one of many -"

"My lord -"

"I am sorry. You played the piano that night, immediately after we spoke, and my heart broke in two, to hear it. I couldn't understand - I thought I knew what was right, what was best, but it hurt so, to know I had hurt you. I am sorry, Stiles."

Stiles could stand no more. He slid off the piano stool and knelt with Derek, seizing his hands. "My lord - Derek - husband -"

"Yes," said Derek, clasping his hands. "All of those. Stiles - I was a different man yesterday, in the heat, when I said I loved you. But I was myself, too; a different aspect of myself. That is always how it is, in the heat. Did no one ever tell you?"

Stiles shook his head. "I am sure my mother would have, had she lived ... My father tried; he spoke of logistics, of the importance of maintaining supply lines -" 

Derek laughed softly. He leaned his forehead against Stiles's. "What I said was true. I love you. I should have said it sooner. I should have explained myself, but I wanted you to see my strength, and not my weakness. I am sorry, Stiles. Once you accepted me, once you married me, I thought my foolish, fearful words were forgotten; it took me too long to see that they plagued you still."

"I should have told you. We Stilinski men are not skilled at explaining, I think." 

"But do believe me, I beg: I love you." Derek cupped Stiles's face between his palms, stroked his jaw with his thumbs. "I love you. This foolish alpha, this fearful man, he is yours, and always has been."

Stiles could only press his mouth to his.

They kissed for a long time. Stiles felt no inclination for lovemaking, but just to feel Derek's skin beneath his hands, to taste his mouth, to lean on him and inhale his air and know him - He kissed him, kissed him again and again, until Derek wrapped him in his arms and held him tight, there on the floor of the music room, kissing him.

Derek stroked his face. "I'm sorry I didn't agree to delay our wedding until after. I didn't understand. It seemed so right to me, that alpha and omega should be together; I didn't understand that it didn't seem right to you. If ever I seem to be missing your point, Stiles, you must tell me to stop being a fool, and listen."

"I would rather not call you a fool." Stiles kissed him, his soul lightening with relief and joy. "I will try, though."

"I will listen better, if you will speak more, and make sure I am hearing you."

"I promise," said Stiles. They kissed again, to seal their pact, and Derek's hands massaged his scalp, his neck, his shoulders. It felt good, and Stiles smiled into the kiss, a little surprised to feel a sleepy, leisurely desire for his husband awakening in him. "Truly," he whispered, "you did not mind too much, the things I wanted of you?"

Derek smiled him a smile of such wickedness that Stiles caught his breath. 

"Husband, truly," said Derek. "Shall I show you, how little I minded?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> I am an actual soon-to-be-published author! Nothing is available for pre-order just yet, but if you're curious about my forthcoming books, check out [my website](https://www.jenyakeefe.com/).


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